The Dead and the Dark Rider
by love.devil.movies.baby
Summary: A Zombie AU set shortly after the Civil War. A world on the edge gets thrust into the zombie apocalypse. This new reality doesn't care about race, gender, or class, but it's people still do. When a dark skinned stranger shows up at his gate, she turns Rick Grimes' world inside out. Can they survive this new existence before the old one kills them? Cover Art by msdoomandgloom
1. The Storm

**A/N: I'm back and with something a little different than my usual fare. Thanks to msdoomandgloom on Tumblr, I'm playing with a new AU starring our favorite couple.**

 **This is set shortly after the Civil War and a re-imagining of TWD in a different time. I have some plans for this story, so please let me know if you're interested in me continuing. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

It was difficult to hear the groans of the dead with the storm raging outside.

The Grimes family was stationed at the kitchen table in the big house, listening to the elements rage. Water sloshed against the wooden frame of the building, shaking the glass inside the window panes. Storms weren't all that uncommon in Georgia, but there was something unusual about this one. It'd been carrying on for upwards of three days now, with no end in sight. The ground outside was soaked, sucking at the heels of whoever dared brave the elements. The evidence of it sat out in the foyer, the boots caked to nearly the top in grime.

Rick stood at the small rectangular window that looked out at the farm, his brow furrowed.

"Everything ok, dad?" Carl asked from his place at the table. Rick turned to look at him. His son's voice was dropping already, the little boy he'd known receding into some semblance of a man. Rick recognized the grim expression on his young face well; he often caught glimpses of it in the mirror.

"Just a thunderstorm," Rick smiled, more for the benefit of his daughter than anything else. Judith was sitting in her brother's lap, her blonde head buried in his chest, his long brown hair clutched between her little fingers. Rick had been meaning to trim his son's chestnut mane, but Carl staunchly avoided it. He hadn't cut his hair since his mother died. The neighbors whispered, but Rick didn't pay them much mind. They were always whispering about him anyway.

"It'll be all right, Judy," Carl soothed, his voice soft, gentle, the tone he reserved only for his sister.

"I don't like it," Judith sniffled into Carl's leather vest. "It's too loud."

Rick was inclined to agree. He hadn't heard thunder like this in years.

"It's just God showing off," Rick stepped away from the window, drawing the lace curtains to shut the world out. Lori, his late wife, had made them. It took her the better part of three months to figure it out, copying a pattern he'd brought home with him from town. They were lopsided maybe, but Rick couldn't bring himself to fix them.

 _"If we're going to have another girl in the house, we need something pretty," Lori had declared with a flourish, hanging them up._

 _"Better get someone else to make 'em then," Rick had teased, even as he helped her put the pins in place. Lori had never much taken to needlepoint, to the female neighbors' great chagrin._

 _She'd hit him then, lightly in the arm, her hands resting on her swollen belly. "They look fine," she'd insisted._

 _Rick wisely kept his mouth shut. "How do you know it's a girl?" he'd asked._

 _Lori had just smiled._

"Dad," Carl startled him from his reverie. Rick stepped away from the window, crossing over to his children. "Are the horses ok?"

"Got 'em locked up as tight as I can," Rick took the vacant seat beside his son. "Got plenty of water and dry hay. Should be fine for a few days, if this weather don't let up."

Carl nodded, his eyes trained on the closed window on the far wall. "And Mom?" he asked quietly, shooting Judith a worried look.

Rick swallowed. "She's uphill son. She should be fine."

"Daddy?" Judith turned to look at him, reaching out for him. Rick gladly took her, settling her in his lap. She reached up, tugging at the hair on his beard. It was beginning to go gray, something Carl never failed to tease him for. Same with the hair along his temples; his dark tresses were dusted in silver, despite his age. The last few years had been taxing and it was beginning to show.

"Yes baby?" Rick busied himself with his daughter's hair. It favored his, curly, but it was the color of wheat when the sun was setting.

"Can you read me a story?" she asked him.

It was early yet for stories. If the weather had been suitable, Rick would still be checking the perimeter of their modest plantation, settling the horses, maybe cleaning his rifle. He slept better at night when he exhausted himself.

"Sure sweetie," he dropped a kiss on her head, then secured her with one arm. With the other, he grasped the gas lamp sitting on the table. "C'mon son," he turned his attention to Carl. "There's nothing much we can do but wait it out."

Together, they exited, leaving the kitchen in darkness. Outside, the storm continued to rage.

-l-l-l-l-

The lightening was a lifesaver.

The moon was hidden tonight, shrouded behind dark clouds. It was the kind of night her mother had always been fond of, the kind she'd tell her stories about.

 _"Nothin' better than a dark night, Michonne," her mother would whisper. "You can do a lot with darkness, if you know what you're doin'."_

Her mama had definitely known what she was doing. Under the cover of night, she'd led entire plantations to safety, past enemy lines and Confederate soldiers, right on up to Canada. Kept right on doing it, even when the dogs had chased her, and the men with their horses and pitchforks. It was one of the reasons her mama taught her to ride. Whoever sat on top of the horse was in charge.

In the end, it had been the horse that killed her. The beast, though loyal, was fallen by a Confederate bullet. Mama broke its fall. The war was over and so was her mother.

It didn't make life any easier though.

So Michonne moved in the shadows, going from town to town, freeing people when the law failed them. She'd had some close calls, but she always got away. She wasn't sure she could get away this time.

She could hear them, even through the weather, her ears tuned to the sounds of human voices. They normally shouted at her, shot at her even. The sound they were making now chilled her to the bone.

She'd lost her horse in the mad dash from that ranch. He'd fallen under their bare hands. The war made her no stranger to savagery, but this…this was something different.

This wasn't human.

She ran, her feet pounding away as the mud sucked at her boots, her lungs burning, water running into her eyes in rivulets. She'd long since lost track of where she was. It didn't matter. She just needed to get away.

Another bolt of lightening struck, illuminating a fence in the distance. Michonne pushed herself, her muscles screaming in protest as she sought to escape. She could still hear them, though faint. She chanced a glance over her shoulder and nearly came undone.

Dead faces. She wouldn't have believed it if she hadn't seen it. It was like something out of Revelations.

She reached the fence at last and hauled herself over, landing hard in the muck. Her pack bounced hard against her back, falling free. She paused for just a moment, frantic, groping for it. She shuddered in relief when her hand closed in on the familiar weight. She was up on her feet in seconds, her weapon out, ready to face the foes who had chased her so far.

They gathered at the fence, pressing in, the five of them gaping at her with wide, bloody mouths, their eyes vacant, their arms reaching for her. Michonne steeled her nerve. She swung once, twice, jabbing and thrusting blindly in the dark, listening to the dull thuds as their bodies hit the ground. The groaning grew quiet, muted by the rain.

She chanced a glance at the leader, slumped over the fence, bleeding from the hole she'd put in him. He'd lost an arm in the conflict, and half of the back of his head. She took a step towards him. When those cold dead eyes turned up to look at her, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

Fear paralyzed her for a moment before she was able to finish it, driving the blade through what was left of his skull. Michonne stood shaking, wet, terrified, and alone, unsure what to do.

Someone upstairs had to have been in her corner though. The lightening rent the sky again and she saw it, a house far off. In the distance, a light flickered, maybe three hundred or so meters off.

On shaky legs, she ran for it, hoping against hope that the owners of this one would be friendly.

-l-l-l-l-

"Shh," Rick cautioned. Carl always walked like he was trying to put holes in the floor.

"Sorry," his son smiled sheepishly. "I'm just glad she finally went down."

"Your mama was afraid of storms too," Rick wasn't sure what compelled him to say it, but he found his lips moving.

"Really?" Carl stopped full in his tracks.

"Really," Rick smiled a bit at the memory. "Even when we were kids."

Carl seemed to process this. "What calmed her down?"

Rick reached for him, clasping him around the arm. "First, she used to hang onto me. Then when you came, she'd hold on to you."

Carl smiled outright. He reached back, squeezing his father's arm. "I miss her," he said quietly.

"I do too, son," Rick admitted, guilt punching him like a fist to the stomach. He swallowed, shaking his head, forcing the moment to pass. "We should check the doors one more time. Make sure the water isn't coming up over the porch."

A flicker of disappointment passed over Carl's face for just a moment before he nodded solemnly. "Good idea." He dogged his father's footsteps, the silence settling between them.

It took some work to get the front door open against the wind. Rick squeezed out, squinting as the rain whipped like a cold knife into his face.

"Some storm," Carl sounded almost afraid.

"We'll weather it," Rick assured his son. He strained his ear for the horses, hoping they weren't spooked.

"What's that?" Carl suddenly pointed out into the darkness, his voice jumping. Rick followed his finger.

For a beat, he thought it was some kind of animal, a coyote maybe, limping towards them in the storm.

"Go get the lamp," Rick instructed. "And the rifle."

Carl paused, fear clear on his face. "Dad…" he began, his voice tense.

"Now," Rick's tone left no room for argument. Carl scampered off, his feet sliding as he made it into the house. Rick squinted off into the distance, wondering whether he should head it off before it reached the house.

"Dad," Carl was back, breathless and clutching the gun. He extended it to him.

"Keep it," Rick pushed it back at him, seizing the lamp instead. "You remember how to shoot?"

Carl gulped, nodding slowly.

"Don't shoot unless I give you the signal," Rick looked hard at him. "I'll shout if I need it."

"What do you think it is?" Carl's eyes flickered to the dark shadow still moving towards them.

"I'm going to find out," Rick promised, moving into the rain.

-l-l-l-l-

Michonne could see them, dark silhouettes against the wood of the house. One of them had a gun. She braced herself, offering up a silent prayer. They didn't fire. Instead, the taller of the two seized the lantern, moving towards her.

She didn't have the strength to fight him, even if he didn't use the gun. She had no strength to get away, and was in no hurry to rush back into the world outside the fence. He was gaining now, crossing to her on long strides.

"Who are you?" his voice was colored with the accent of the area, a sound that normally ran her blood cold. Instead she reached out for him.

"Help," she managed, staggering toward him. "Please."

He froze, lifting the lamp. Michonne could make out his face. His skin was tanned, streaked with rain, his dark hair soaked. His eyes, blue as a river in springtime, reflected shock.

"Please," she croaked out again, collapsing in exhaustion.

"Who is it?" a small voice called out towards her. A child. Michonne attempted to turn her head toward the sound. She ended up falling forward into the mud.

"Carl!" the man yelled out, speeding up his steps. The light got deposited somewhere nearby.

"Please," Michonne repeated, even as her body gave out on her.

The lightening flashed just as he reached her, his calloused hands extending outward.


	2. The Stranger

**A/N: Thank you for the feedback! I'm excited for this story; it should be a good challenge for me. Here's chapter 2. Enjoy!**

* * *

"Who is that?"

Carl's question was frantic, echoing the panicked rattling of Rick's pulse.

"A woman," he answered, securing her in his arms. She was covered in blood and muck, but that much was clear. Rick lifted her experimentally. She was lighter than she seemed, wrapped in layers of men's clothing.

"She's... a negro?" Carl ventured, pausing to look at her face. He raised the lantern as high as he could.

Rick steadied her on his shoulder chancing a look at a patch of skin exposed around her midriff. Her dark complexion was ashen beneath the filth, even in the lamplight. "Looks like it," a familiar pang of guilt nearly caused him to lose his footing. He steadied himself, determined to get out of the rain and out of sight.

"Is she a runaway?" Carl continued his questions, holding up the lantern for his father as they staggered up the front steps. They paused on the porch. Rick lowered her gently to the ground.

"There are no runaways," Rick said firmly. "She's a person." He fixed his eyes on the horizon. The storm showed no signs of slowing down, the rain pouring in bucket loads. The strange woman began to tremble, her body rocking with shock. She needed to be warm and dry.

Carl nodded, bending down to gaze into her face. "She needs help," he said.

Rick was already fussing with her, gingerly lifting the stiff leather of her jacket. He pulled the layer off as best he could, tensing when she let out a plaintive cry.

"Is that her blood?" Concern colored Carl's voice. He dropped to his knees beside his father.

Rick didn't answer, but busied himself with inspecting the woman beneath him. He hadn't seen anything like this in years, not since the war. He'd once thought that women were somehow immune to the horrors of this world, that atrocities passed them by. He knew better now. The fairer sex suffered just the same of the rest of them, considerably more so when their complexion was dark.

He used the fabric of his shirt sleeve to wipe the mud from her face, pausing for a moment to look at her. She was breathing, uttering exhausted little sounds from between a round, full mouth. Her features betrayed her heritage, from her nose to her large eyes and long eyelashes. Her hair was twisted tightly into a style he'd never seen before, long and thick and coarse.

"She's pretty," Carl whispered this in half-awe. Rick had the startling realization that his son had never before seen a negro woman.

"I don't think she's hurt," Rick finished his assessment of her. "She's not bleeding anyway." He poked and prodded, searching for a wound. Lightening flashed, illuminating the world around them. A sense of urgency overtook him. "We're bringing her inside," he made a decision at once.

Carl was up and had the door open before Rick even managed to lift her up. He slid into the house, instructing his son to bolt the door behind them.

"Get towels," the instructions were coming fast and thick as he maneuvered inside, heading for the bathroom. "And a bucket of water."

"Should I warm it on the fire?" Carl asked, hopping around his father, full of nervous energy.

"Bring me one for now, then go heat another one," Rick laid the woman in the bathtub, listening to his son beat a path back into the kitchen. He set about stripping her soiled clothing, tossing it in an undignified pile beside the cast-iron tub. He paused when he grasped a metal case beneath her coat. Carefully, he lifted the shoulder strap over her head, depositing it near his feet. It was heavy, resembling a scabbard. Some of the generals had carried them during the war, more for pomp than for anything else. Rick vowed to inspect it more closely later before returning to his task.

She was burning up, her skin feverish as he worked to free her. Her underclothing resembled that of men. Rick paused, gingerly lifting the fabric. Her skin beneath was smooth and dark, unmarked by any wounds that might account for the blood on her clothing. Rick chanced a closer look, his eyes roving over her legs. She moaned softly, clearly in pain, shivering.

"Is she ok?" Carl's voice startled him.

"She's feverish," Rick reached for the bucket. "I'm going to clean her up and get her in bed."

"What do you need me to do?" Carl asked eagerly.

Rick dipped a rag in the water, sponging at her forehead. "I need you to keep Judith safe."

Carl paused, "Do you think she'll live?" he glanced curiously into the tub, his face contorted with worry.

"That's up to God, son," Rick sought a way to comfort him. "But I'm going to do my best."

"You'll wake me up if she…" Carl took a deep breath, swallowing thickly.

"I will," Rick nodded solemnly. "But I need to focus now son."

Carl took a step backwards, then rushed forward, hugging Rick tightly around the waist. Rick stumbled a bit, caught of guard by the sudden display of affection. At once, Carl let go, hurrying from the room. As Carl retreated, Rick took a deep breath, steeling himself for the task ahead. He left the bathroom door open a crack, listening as always for his children.

"Ok," he breathed, more for his benefit than for the stranger in his house.

He knelt beside the tub and bent to his task.

-l-l-l-l-

When Michonne opened her eyes, two pairs stared back at her.

She shot backwards at once, her back slamming against the headboard, the blankets tangling around her legs. She reached instinctively for her sword, her panic only increasing when she groped at empty air.

"Daddy!" the little girl at the foot of the bed bellowed, her blonde curls bouncing as her head turned towards the closed door in the corner.

"Judy," the older of the two, a dark-haired boy, sighed in exasperation.

"What?" the little girl whipped back around. "Daddy said to get him when she woke up."

"You _scared_ her," the boy insisted. He turned to Michonne, his blue eyes gleaming. Michonne recognized those eyes from another face.

"Sorry," the blonde girl was repentant at once. Crawling forward, she patted Michonne on a sheet-covered knee.

Michonne tightened up, moving further backwards. The young boy's eyes did not miss the gesture.

"Go get daddy," he instructed the little girl, standing up.

With an all important nod, the girl called Judy scampered from the room, slamming the door behind her. The boy came to his feet, facing Michonne importantly, his hands behind his back like he was about to recite in Sunday school.

"I'm Carl Grimes," he told her. "That was my sister Judith." He paused, fixing her with his gaze. "My dad and I saved you."

Michonne drew her knees up, loosening the sheets around her. She stared back at the boy. He couldn't have been much older than 12, but he carried himself like a man grown.

"Do you have a name?" he prompted her, tilting his head curiously at her.

"Carl," the door opened again, admitting Judith, hand-in-hand with a man. "We talked about this." He directed his comments at his son.

"I wasn't bothering her," Carl protested. "Judith is the one who scared her."

"I was trying to get Daddy," Judith countered, stomping her foot.

The man sighed, clearly exhausted. "Why don't you two go down to the kitchen. See what we've got to eat." It was a dismissal, though polite. Michonne watched as the two children left reluctantly, each looking at her over their shoulder. The door shut snugly behind them.

"I see you met my children," the man stood stiffly near the foot of the bed. Michonne took in his appearance. He couldn't have been much older than her, maybe midway through his 30s. Still, his face was creased with worry, his eyes rimmed by dark circles. She'd seen men like this before, both before and during the war.

Michonne nodded, cautious, her eyes flicking to the door. Rick turned around to glance at it. Without a word, he reached behind him, opening it a crack.

"I'm Rick Grimes," he turned back to her. "This is my house. That was my fence out there you went over."

Michonne tensed, inhaling, her muscles tight. "I didn't mean to," she ventured, dropping her eyes.

Rick did not look overly concerned. "I've got some questions for you." He took a seat in a wooden chair beside her bed, leaning forward. Michonne scooted further away. "Do you have a name, miss?" he asked her.

Michonne gave a start. "Michonne," she whispered.

"It's a pretty name," he leaned backwards, still staring at her. "Where'd you come from, Michonne?"

"I'm not a runaway," she answered, raising her eyes just the slightest.

"I know you ain't," he licked his lips. "But this ain't exactly a great area to be a negro woman all alone."

"Is there anyplace where it's good to be me?" she asked the question before really considering it. She was surprised by his reaction.

Rick let out a puff of breath. "I guess not," he sounded regretful. A beat passed, the silence thick and sweltering. Rick spoke again. "Miss Michonne, you're safe here, but I got to know what had you running. I'd go outside and check myself but…" he gestured to a small window. Outside, the storm raged on.

Memory came rushing back, the nightmares filling her mind. She drew her knees up. "Where's my clothes?" she asked suddenly. She was dressed in a nightgown. It was too small for her, tight across the chest and thighs.

"Hanging out to dry as best they can," Rick answered. "Same with that sword of yours. You took that off a soldier?"

"It's mine," Michonne insisted.

Rick looked at her hard, finally nodding. "I got it safe for you. But you can understand why I'm hesitant to arm a stranger in my house, 'specially when I don't know what brought you here in the first place."

"The dead," Michonne whispered, her eyes drawn back to the window.

"The dead?" Rick blinked in confusion. "Like the soldiers from the war?"

Michonne shook her head. "No," she felt pressure behind her eyes, swallowing it down. She didn't know this man, didn't know his family. For all she knew, he was just as bad.

Somewhere in the house, Judith began to laugh, her giggles echoing up the walls. Rick turned his head toward the door, a smile tugging at his lips. Carl's voice joined the fray. Michonne followed the sound, her eyes on Rick.

"Miss Michonne," Rick turned to her. "I've got children. If there's a threat, you need to tell me."

A silence stretched between them. Michonne wondered if she could get to the door and to her sword before Rick could catch her. As if reading her thoughts, he stood up and stepped forward, leaning down right into her face.

"I know you don't know me. And I know a negro woman has no reason to trust a white man in this world, but I can promise you, I mean you no harm."

Michonne watched him, searching his face for a twitch, a tick, any sign he was lying. He held her gaze, unflinching.

"Please," he entreated. "We saved your life."

Michonne released the breath she was holding, her eyes turning back to the window. If they were still out there, she needed help. She had no weapon, no clothing, no horse, no food.

"I have to show you," she looked back at Rick.

Rick leaned back, nodding solemnly. "I'll get you some clothes."

-l-l-l-l-

The bodies didn't bother him, not at first.

Michonne had led him back out into the wet world, the sun struggling to permeate the cloud cover around them. She refused his help, even as she limped beside him. Rick suppressed the urge to reach for her, instead watching her carefully as she picked her way to his borders.

She was unlike anyone he had ever known. His whole life, he'd been in contact with negro faces, especially during the war. There were certain things you got used to without really meaning to, the harsh realities of a life that was cruel and bitterly unfair. He'd seen sadness in dark eyes like hers, hate, determination.

In Michonne's eyes, he saw a warrior. He'd almost forgotten what that looked like.

She must have questions for him, dozens. If he had woken up in a strange bed, in clothing that wasn't his own, he'd be full of them. Rick had cleaned her up last night, even going so far as to rinse her hair. He wasn't in the habit of bathing naked women, especially when they were feverish and barely conscious. Still, there was something about seeing her like that, trembling and bloody and so vulnerable. He wanted to treat her with some gentleness, even if she never remembered it.

If he had to guess, life hadn't treated her with a gentle hand in the past.

"It was up there," she gestured, pointing to some place a few meters off. Rick squinted into the rain. As they came closer, his eyes widened.

"Hell," he sighed. Looked like dynamite had gone off over here. "You did all this?"

She remained silent, her eyes firmly fixed ahead. Rick resisted the urge to swear again in a women's presence. It was clear now that that sword of hers was for more than just decoration. He wondered where'd she'd learned that. He felt the press of the hilt from beneath his jacket, the scabbard hidden just out of sight. He wasn't going to leave a thing like that lying around the house, not with Carl around.

"How many were there?" he asked, determined to remain calm.

"Five," she replied. She stopped a few yards off, unwilling to get closer.

"Lord," he stared at the bodies, their limbs strewn about, their blood washing away in puddles. The wounds were clean, almost surgical, not the hacked off mess that fights normally ended in. Fear began to rise in his throat, not of this woman, but _for_ her. They would be coming for her, and soon. He wasn't sure he could hide her. "Why were they after you?" he asked, turning to her.

She shrugged slightly. Rick realized what a foolish query it was. It didn't take much to get a mob going out here.

"You should get closer," she suggested again. "Take a look." She took a step backwards, looking shaky on her feet.

Wearily, Rick advanced, keeping his back turned away from her. He passed a hand missing two fingers, half an arm, and a bloody mass he couldn't identify. When he got to the head, he experienced a terror like he'd never felt before.

Eyes open, mouth agape, a severed head was snapping at him from the mud.

"Jesus," he wasn't sure if he meant to swear or if he was calling out for the Lord. Might have been both.

The teeth clashed, eyes rolling. Rick poked at it with his rifle, needing to see despite the urge to run. He recognized this man from town. He'd been an overseer on a plantation not far from here. When the war came, he couldn't wait to sign up.

"You killed him?" his head snapped back, his eyes wide as he observed the woman a few feet off.

She shook her head. "He was dead when he started chasing me," she said. For the first time, Rick saw the real fear in her eyes.

"I gotta clean this up, before the children see," his mind began to race, listing plans of action, trying to make sense of this new information. The ground was too wet still for digging, but perhaps he could burn them in the barn…

"Rick," her voice drew him out of his panicked reverie. He focused on her once again. She was shaking, something he was sure had nothing to do with the weather. "There were more of them," she informed him, her voice warbling.

"Where?' he asked, clutching his gun.

She raised one finger, pointing.

Rick turned, heart pounding, praying he had enough bullets.


	3. The Dead

**A/N: Thank you for all of the feedback! I really appreciate it. I have a plan for this story, and hopefully, the updates will be frequent. Enjoy!**

* * *

There were at least three of the dead, their bodies gray and bloated, staggering towards the unlikely duo. Rick could smell them, even through the scent of rain and mud. Their sound, a low groan, reached his ears. They were wandering towards them, ambling on swollen legs, their mouths agape, dripping gore. Michonne let out a gasp, freezing like a deer in the road.

"Hell," Rick took an instinctive step backwards, coming to stop in front of her. He had half a mind to send Michonne running back to the house to lock herself in with the children. He fumbled with his rifle, praying that the powder was dry enough to fire. He raised the gun, pointing it at the nearest of the rotting men.

She knocked it from his hands, yanking the musket down with lightning fast precision. He turned on her, incredulous, wondering if this had all been some sort of trap. Her eyes were wide, one finger extended over her lips.

"Shhh…" he whisper could barely be heard over the weather. She pointed her finger towards them.

Rick turned again, watching the dead meander. It did not seem as though they had spotted the two of them yet. Michonne gripped his arm, her fingers digging in, guiding him backwards. Reluctantly, he followed, unwilling to leave her alone when she seemed so terrified. His mind wandered to his children. He sent up a silent prayer that they were safe and sound in the kitchen. He contemplated sprinting for the house, but Michonne was in no shape to run, and he couldn't carry her that quickly over that distance.

Michonne kept right on tugging on his arm, her grip tight, until they got to the barn. Formulating a plan of sorts, Rick fiddled frantically with the lock, opening it as quickly as he could. Michonne pushed her back flat against the damp wood, her eyes never leaving the threat beyond the fence.

"C'mon," his command came out gruffer than he intended. He seized her, tugging her into the barn. Once the door was locked, he spun on her. "What are they?" he demanded.

"I don't know," she answered. She shook, soaked to her core and more spooked than the horses had been in the thunderstorm. He gentled himself immediately, pushing his fear back. Panic would not serve either of them.

"My apologies," he began. Michonne's brow creased at his sudden shift in tone. Determined to make amends, Rick shrugged out of his jacket, leaning the rifle against the door before draping the leather around her shoulders. She tensed, nearly stumbling back as he covered her. She watched him, shock evident on her face.

He watched as Michonne looked around, taking in their surroundings. The barn was dry, much warmer than the outside air. If the horses were aware of the threat just beyond, they showed no sign of it. Two or three of them raised their head, blinking balefully at the new arrivals with large brown eyes. Michonne's face brightened when she saw them.

"Michonne," he called her name softly, drawing her attention back to him. "Just tell me what you _do_ know," he entreated. His patience was running thin, even as his heart hammered against his chest. His children weren't far from these dead men outside. He needed to know what they were facing.

She stared back at him, apparently coming to some conclusion. When she spoke, her voice was flat, emotionless. "They were men," she began. "Rebels still bitter about the war," she shook again, leaning backwards near the stalls. The horses nickered quietly. Michonne reached for one, stroking its long face. "They were drunk, out looking for trouble. They found me." She looked down, studying her feet as the horse nuzzled her. "They were chasing me. Must have recognized me somehow, or maybe they just were searching for something to amuse themselves. Nearly caught me at the river, but I had my horse. I made it across, even with the storm. They weren't so fortunate."

"They drowned?" Rick guessed. The dead out there looked as much. He didn't feel an ounce of pity for them.

Michonne nodded. "I thought so. Even saw their bodies floating away. Figured I had to get away before I got blamed. But the storm—" she sighed. "It held me up. I was resting my horse when they found me. He got spooked and they fell on him and just—" she sniffled. "They tore into him. I managed to get away while they were eating. I fled, but a few of them chased me down. I barely made it over your fence."

She broke off, her eyes cutting to the door. From outside, the faint sounds of groaning could be heard.

"Why aren't they chasing us now?" Rick seized his musket, peering out of the crack between the barn doors.

"I don't know," Michonne repeated, clearly frustrated. "Maybe they can't see us, or hear us, or smell us…" she trailed off, huffing.

"All right," Rick nodded, turning to her. "How do we kill them? For good?"

"The head," Michonne answered, sounding confident for the first time that morning. "You have to stab them in the head."

Without another word, Rick walked to the wall nearby, seizing a hatchet. He slung his gun back over his shoulder before fumbling behind him. "Here," he thrust the scabbard out towards his new ally. She gripped it immediately, unsheathing it.

"What's the plan?" she asked. Her whole demeanor changed as she gripped the sword. Rick found himself transfixed for a moment. His oversized shirt and pants suddenly looked regal on her, her face transformed. Whatever fear she felt had seemingly evaporated.

"You run for the house, keep the children safe. I'll take care of them," Rick instructed, already moving for the door.

Her scoff caught him off guard. "You don't know what you're fighting," she countered. "If anyone should be keeping the children, it's you."

Rick paused, raising a brow. "You couldn't even walk last night. You were limping this morning."

"I still managed to kill five of them on my own," she argued right back.

She had a point and Rick was no fool. "Together," he compromised. "But if something happens to me, you take the children and run. There's another plantation about a mile away to the east. The Greenes. They'll look after you."

Michonne nodded almost dismissively. She stepped beside him, pulling the long tendrils of her hair high onto her head with a length of leather around her wrist. Her fingers flexed against the hilt of her sword. "Ready?" she asked, turning her eyes on him.

"Ready," he agreed, pushing the door open.

-l-l-l-l-

Rick was a better fighter than Michonne would have given him credit for. She was surprised at the fearlessness in his eyes as he rushed forward, hatchet out, ready to defend his home. She'd seen aggression before, and was no stranger to savagery, but there was something in Rick's eyes, almost a detachment. He took no pleasure in the killing, even though he was damn good at it.

They cornered the dead men against the fence, using her technique from the night before. She had two heads off and rolling before Rick could even raise his weapon. Still, he lifted his arm high, throwing the axe with such precision that it hit the third enemy dead between the eyes before almost exiting the back of his head. He was on it in seconds, yanking it from what remained of the skull to quickly dispatch the heads at Michonne's feet. The bodies slumped, useless and finally still, absorbing even more water as the rain washed away the evidence of the carnage.

They stood, feet apart, moisture pouring over their faces. Rick shook the blood from his hatchet.

"Thank you," his clipped southern accent rang out, the tone measured, as though they hadn't just had to hack dead men to bits.

"You can fight," Michonne studied him carefully. "You were in the war?"

"Wasn't everyone?" he answered, effectively evading her query. Michonne nodded, letting it pass for now. He was kinder by far than any white man had ever been to her this side of the border. It would have to be enough for now. "And you," he turned his head, tilting it towards her in an oddly effecting manner. "You fight." It was not a question.

"I have to," she responded simply.

He nodded, tucking the machete into his waistband. "Can't let the children see this," he announced, more for himself than her.

"There's a shovel in the barn," Michonne had seen it when she took inventory of the place.

"There is," he agreed. "I'm going to grab it. I need you to do something for me."

Michonne nodded. "I can dig," she was no stranger to manual labor.

"I'm certain you can," Rick looked almost amused. "But I need you to go inside and protect Carl and Judith while I bury them."

She stared back at him, unsure of what to make of this man. "I can help—"

"You're quicker with that blade than I am with this," he gestured to the hatchet. "If these get to the house, you'll be more useful to them than I will." He stood stubbornly, hands on his waist, staring her down. "Please."

Michonne wasn't sure how he managed to turn a command into a compliment, but it caught her unaware. She nodded before she'd even registered herself agreeing. "Fine," she told him.

"I'll walk you to the house. I need to talk to Carl first." He gestured as though he was going to take her elbow before thinking better of it.

Michonne walked alongside him, calculating. She could walk back toward the house, wait until he was busy, then head to the barn. If she moved quickly, she could be gone before he even noticed, on horseback and far away from here. She chanced a look at him. He was hurrying, though he tried to hide it, his bowlegged gait beelinging for his children. She wondered, not for the first time, where his wife was, where his servants were. Perhaps it was just him here, all alone, left with two mouths to feed.

"I'll look after them," she found herself speaking again against her better judgement, reassuring this stranger beside her. He paused on the front porch, relief palpable on his face.

"Thank you," he reached for her shoulder, but she pulled back as though he was attempting to burn her. He dropped his arm, obviously embarrassed. Michonne's own cheeks flushed.

"Be safe," she bid him farewell before practically running into his house, overcome with a desire to be alone and away from this confusing man. She had no such luck. The children were on them as soon as the door opened, worry written clearly on both of their tiny faces.

"I'm fine," Rick announced as they walked inside. "We both are. Miss Michonne's going to mind you, ain't that right, Miss Michonne?" he turned to her expectantly, his smile too bright.

Michonne nodded, nervous once again. Rick remained nonplussed.

"Carl, son, I need you for a moment. Miss Michonne, you can wash up in the tub," he told her, all proper southern manners once again. "Judith will show you."

Michonne watched him walk back outside, Carl trailing behind him. "If I'm not back in an hour, come find me," he called back to her. Michonne nodded, watching the door swing shut.

At her elbow, the little blonde cherub smiled up at her. "C'mon, miss," she tugged at her arm. "I'll show you."

Dazed, Michonne followed her.

-l-l-l-l-

Carl did not flinch as Rick explained to him the situation, his little face stoic.

"I don't understand," he said at last, his brow furrowed. "What do you think it means?"

"I'm not sure, son," the uncertainty of it all was eating away at him. "We're going to have to talk to some folks, find out what they've seen." If he took a horse, he could make it to the Greene's property. He couldn't leave his family though, not until he was sure they would be protected.

"Is it safe to bring people here?" Carl looked up at him. "Miss Michonne….she killed those men."

"They were already dead," Carl was young, far too young for this sort of conversation, but Rick had no choice.

"But the sheriffs, the other farmers…they ain't going to believe that," Carl was indignant. Perhaps he was not so naïve as Rick believed.

"We ain't going to turn her in," Rick assured him. "But we got to keep everyone safe."

"What do I do?" Carl asked, pushing his hat up over his eyes. It was overlarge, even after Rick stuffed it to help it sit better on Carl's head. Most often, it covered his forehead and brow, throwing into focus just how young Carl still was. Rick had intended to give him that hat when he came of age, an heirloom passed down from his father. When Lori passed, Carl had begun to grow up much faster than Rick would have chosen him to. Rick stared down at his face, so very much like his own, feeling his heart break for his son all over again.

"Watch Michonne," Rick told him. "She's skittish like a fawn and scared, but she's not telling us everything, not yet."

"You think she's lying?" Carl seemed shocked at the thought.

"No. I think she just isn't telling us everything." Rick reassured him.

"She doesn't really know us," Carl mused.

"Precisely," Rick agreed. "And we don't know her. Until we get to know each other, we have to be careful. Watch your sister. Protect her."

"I will," Carl agreed seriously.

"I'll be back," Rick checked the hatchet at his waist. The rain was letting up, but digging would still be difficult. The faster he got it done, the better.

"Love you, dad," Carl hugged him.

Rick hugged him back, releasing him reluctantly to return to his work.

-l-l-l-l-

"Can I touch your hair?" Judith was perched on the end of the cast iron tub, her feet dangling down. She hadn't looked away from Michonne in upwards of half an hour, refusing to leave even the washroom.

Michonne stared back at her, torn between exasperation and amusement. Cleaning up would have been a much faster task alone, but she found she did not mind the company.

"Why do you want to feel it?" she questioned the little girl carefully. It was not an unusual request. Most girls (and women) like Judith simply grabbed her hair, fascinated. Michonne jealously guarded it now, refusing to be treated like some lap dog.

Judith considered the question, screwing her face up as though she was getting ready to recite lines in a school house. "It's not the same as mine," she said at last.

"How so?" Michonne took advantage of her distraction to wash her face, sloughing the sweat and mud and blood away.

Judith smiled brightly, showing off her baby teeth. "It's brown!"

"That's true," Michonne couldn't help but grin. "What else?"

"It's not curly," Judith leaned in, attempting to study the subject of her fascination more closely.

"It _is_ curly," Michonne corrected. "But I fixed it to look like this."

This fact seemed to delight the little girl. "Was it hard to do?"

Michonne shook her head. It was easier to deal with her twisted locs than fuss with her hair all of the time, especially when she was on the run. There were other things to focus on than her vanity.

"Can you do it to my hair?" Judith asked, brandishing her own blonde tresses.

"I don't think it will stay," Michonne informed her regretfully, straightening up to pat herself dry.

"Oh," Judith was disappointed for a moment. Then she perked up. "Can I touch it?" she asked again.

Laughing, Michonne leaned forward, letting her hair fall over. Judith jumped on it immediately. Her little hands patted her gently, twisting around the individual locs.

"Carl says our mama had long hair," she said suddenly, her eyes on Michonne's face. "He says it was the same color as yours. Daddy has brown hair too. It's just me with yellow."

"Yellow is pretty," Michonne sought to assure her, even as her mind tumbled with questions.

"My mama died," Judith continued. "She was pushing me out."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Michonne felt a pang in her heart. "My mama died too."

Judith paused, dropping her hands. Instead she reached for Michonne's face. Michonne kept herself still as the child touched her face instead.

"We should be friends, Miss Michonne," Judith propositioned her, her expression deathly serious. For the first time, Michonne saw a shadow of her father reflected there.

"I think we will be, Miss Judith," Michonne smiled, tugging lightly at Judith's curls.

-l-l-l-l-

Rick returned to the house, muddy, sore, and still brooding, his mind racing. His children were in the main room, laying on their stomach. Carl was reading aloud to his sister, his voice lilting as he made his way through the Old Testament. Rick allowed himself to be distracted for a moment, forgetting about the dead, forgetting about the world outside.

"Rick Grimes," her quiet voice startled him. He spun on his heel, coming to face Michonne. She was dressed in another of his shirts, the tan fabric hanging off her frame. Her trousers were too large for her as well, cinched around the middle. Rick had a sudden memory of the smooth skin that hid just beneath the clothing. He flushed, embarrassed and ashamed.

"Miss Michonne," he nodded at her, clearing his throat. "Thank you for minding the children." He stepped towards her.

She looked at them, something almost like fondness crossing her face. "We need to talk," she told him simply.

"I agree," Rick watched her, wondering what had happened in the hour or so since he left her alone.

"We need a plan," she continued. "I have some ideas."

"All right," Rick found himself smiling at her. "Let's talk."


	4. Old Friends

**A/N: Gotta strike while the iron is hot! For now, the updates will keep coming as the story pours out of me. Thank you for all of the positive feedback. Let me know how you're liking it.**

* * *

Michonne had gained a diminutive, blonde shadow. If she had been acting like the smart woman her mama had raised her to be, she'd have avoided that child like the plague. She was a stranger in this house, a fugitive in an unwelcomed land. Every tick of the grandfather clock in the main room seemed to herald her doom. Each passing day without a sighting of the dead only increased her dread.

They would not believe her, not even with Rick Grimes' backing. If she was clever, she'd have stolen out to the barn with her sword, taken a horse, and ridden as fast as she could for Canada. Instead, she was sitting on the floor in front of the fire, listening as Judith tried to sound out the letters of the alphabet.

"How do you spell your name, Miss Michonne?" Judith asked all importantly.

The question made the occupants of the room freeze. Even Rick, a man who'd been on pins and needles for the better part of three days, ceased his pacing. He stopped in front of the window he'd been staring out of, turning to look at her. Carl glanced up at her from beneath his over-large brown hat. Michonne felt her stomach clench.

She could spell. Her mama had made sure of it. Forging freedom papers was no easy feat. She'd had diligent practice since the time when she was a child.

"How do you think it's spelled?" she evaded, prompting the girl.

Judith considered this, dragging out the first syllable of Michonne's name. "Mmmmm…" she mumbled, clearly growing frustrated.

"M," Carl contributed, coming over to help his sister. The little boy was much less talkative than his sibling, and watched her with a focus she almost found unnerving. There was no malice in his gaze, but an intensity she rarely saw in a white child.

He walked over, settling beside them. Michonne happily relinquished Judith to her brother, eager to escape this room. She left the warmth that was the living room, rushing for the washroom. She could hear the footsteps echoing hers.

"Miss Michonne," Rick was always nothing but formal to her, even as he haunted her steps, his genteel manners never faltering.

She paused, wondering how much force it might take to knock him over. The weather continued to be gray, but the lightening had let up. She could make a run for it.

Rick caught her, boxing her in, blocking her escape. He had a trick of leaning in when he spoke, as though you were the only person in the world he could be talking to. She found it soothing, despite her misgivings.

"Rick," she acknowledged him. She never called him "Mister", never called him "Sir". She would never use those words again.

"Forgive my children," he began, hands on his waist. "They're…" he trailed off, shooting a glance backwards at the two people in question. "They're not like other children around here."

Michonne nodded, unsure how to take that. "It's all right," she said.

"It ain't," Rick argued, "If they're asking you things you don't feel comfortable with, you don't have to answer." He exhaled, looking exhausted, his eyes flicking up to hold hers. "I know it ain't easy out there, 'specially for a colored woman. But in here, you ain't that."

Michonne's eyebrows jumped. He noticed and hastened to clarify.

"I mean, you are…" he gestured to all of her, his face flushing. "But it doesn't mean that we're going to treat you—"

"Like I'm colored?" she asked.

Rick's flush heightened until he was damn near scarlet. "Like less than a person," he settled on at last.

"Well, thank you," it seemed odd, but she could think of nothing else to say.

Rick rubbed the back of his head, a gesture that often accompanied his frustration. "Look, the weather is starting to clear up. I think it might be time to act on what we talked about."

That talk seemed ages ago, though it had only been days. The longer she thought about it, the more misgivings she had. "You think it's smart?" she ventured.

"I think it's the only plan we got," Rick looked distressed. "We ain't seen none of those things in days. We got to find out what's going on."

"They'll be coming soon," Michonne wasn't sure if she meant the dead or the lawmen. She wasn't sure there was much difference.

"Probably," Rick acknowledged. "We should be ready."

"Rick," he seemed to start at his name leaving her lips. Michonne continued on. "I thank you for everything you've done for me." She was wearing his clothes, eating his food, sleeping in a bed that belonged to him. "It was kindness that I couldn't have hoped for, but—"

"No buts," he cut her off, holding up a hand. "I know what you're thinking, and the answer is no. I ain't going to let you do that."

"You can't protect me," she protested.

"I can," Rick looked as though he believed it. "It ain't safe for anyone out there, least of all a woman. They'll trust my word over yours. Stay."

"And tell them what?" she felt angry, trapped. "That I'm your—"

"Nursemaid," he said firmly. "I know that ain't something you like, but it'll save you. Judith, she loves you. Carl won't say anything. It'll protect you when they come."

"And you think they'll believe that? That you just up and got a nursemaid?" she asked.

"My wife has been dead three years. They don't see a lot of me in town. Wouldn't be the strangest thing that ever happened round here." He sucked his teeth, glancing back at his children again. "I'm going to ride to the Greene's, soon as the sun comes up tomorrow. Will you stay till then?" he questioned.

Michonne considered this. "What if they come tomorrow?" she asked.

"Carl will hide you," Rick vowed. "And I won't be far. I just need some information, then I'll be back. I promise."

He'd been making her lots of promises lately. Michonne wished she could believe them.

"All right," she agreed, exhaling. "I'll stay."

-l-l-l-l-

"Remember what we talked about," Rick reminded Carl as they made their way out to the barn.

"Keep the door locked. Stay quiet. Don't go outside. Try not to fire the rifle," Carl recited, looking slightly exasperated.

"And?" Rick prompted.

"Watch the girls," Carl finished.

"Miss Michonne, she can protect you if the dead come. But if it's men, you have to protect her, you understand?"

Carl nodded. "I know."

The trouble was Rick wasn't sure he did. He'd tried to keep Carl as insulated from this world as possible. "Who is she to you?" he quizzed.

"Our nursemaid," Carl repeated. "She came after mama died." He swallowed thickly. "She minds me and Judith when you're working."

"Good," Rick opened the door, leading out a chestnut mare. "Where'd she come from?"

"Way down past Mississippi," Carl told him. "Her mama worked at mama's daddy's plantation. They sent her."

Rick nodded. "And?"

"And after the war, she stayed because she loves Judith and me so much. We pay her by keeping her," Carl finished.

It was a story that Rick knew Michonne hated, and one he wasn't comfortable with himself. But it might save her. "Good," he led the horse and his son out of the barn.

In the distance, Michonne was standing on the porch, Judith at her hip. She looked the part, her hair swept up high and off her face into a loose knot, a faded yellow dress adorning her instead of his clothing. It had belonged to Lori, another hand-me-down he hadn't been able to get rid of. It barely fit, increasing his misgivings about the whole situation. The places where it was tight…well, he'd seen negro women in other plantation houses dressed this way. It was many gentlemen's worst kept secret. He knew Michonne knew this as well, knew she felt uncomfortable with the way the fabric clung to her. He couldn't help but stare as she came down the steps that morning, the old yellow fabric somehow bright on her dark skin. He felt guilty at the very thought.

She waved, her face impassive, though he knew she had to be burning up. She was taking a gamble on him, on his abilities. He hoped he wouldn't fail her. He couldn't fail any more people.

"All right son, run on back," he kissed the top of Carl's head, pointing him towards the house. Carl complied, kicking up mud behind him. It wasn't until Rick was sure they were inside, the door closed that he finally mounted his horse. Pointing himself east, he took off at a gallop, his hatchet at his side.

-l-l-l-l-

"You look nice in a dress," Carl told Michonne, staring up at her from the kitchen table.

Judith hummed in agreement, swinging her feet from the wooden chair, happily scraping away on her slate with some chalk.

"Thank you," Michonne came to sit beside the boy. She was anxious, her stomach roiling. The clouds were rolling away outside, the sun coming in. The reality of her situation seemed to become clearer as the day brightened.

"Can I ask you something?" Carl looked at her seriously.

"I suppose so," Michonne answered, bracing herself.

"Before all this…" Carl gulped nervously. "Were you…a slave?"

Judith dropped her chalk, looking up at her, wide-eyed. Carl wore a similar expression.

Michonne paused, contemplating her answer. "No," she settled on the simplified version.

"How come?" Carl asked. "I mean…I just thought…Daddy said that the colored people down here were…"

"We never had one," Judith imparted. "Daddy hates it."

Michonne looked at the two of them, both of them staring back at her. There was no doubt that they were unusual children. She'd heard the tales from other women like her, of raising babies only to have them come to despise you just like their parents. It was clear that these two were cut from a different cloth of sorts.

"My mama was one. She was freed before she had me." There was no need to mention to these two that she had freed _herself_.

Carl exhaled. "That's good. Daddy says that life is hard for people when they're slaves. He says it's wrong."

On this, at least, she and Rick agreed. "Your daddy is right."

"How come people do that?" Judith asked her.

"Do what?" Michonne turned to the little girl.

"Treat people different," Carl clarified, "Because you're colored."

"I wish I knew," Michonne did not have an answer for them. She tugged at her dress, trying to create more space in the neckline. She wished she had thought to bind herself before shoving herself into this dress. She felt ready to burst at the seams. Rick could have caught flies this morning, the way his jaw dropped at the sight of her. He'd gone scarlet again, hiding his face, all but rushing from the room. Michonne was trying not to dwell on it.

"Is that why there was a war?" Judith asked.

"Yes," It was Carl that answered. "But the right side won." He stated this with conviction.

"How do you know?" Judith turned to her brother.

"Dad told me," Carl said. Judith seemed to take this as gospel.

This information piqued Michonne interest. "Did your daddy fight?" she asked. She already knew the answer, but wanted to hear it for herself.

"Some men came," Carl suddenly found the tabletop very fascinating. He picked at it. "He was gone for a long time. Mama said he had to go, so he went."

Michonne nodded. Conscription wasn't uncommon, not on either side.

"Did you fight?" Judith asked her, interested.

"Ladies don't fight," Carl corrected.

"I did," Michonne sat back in her chair, looking at them both. Carl's jaw dropped.

"You did?" he breathed. "How?"

The answer was that she cut kept her hair pulled back, wore breeches, and ran into battle, but Carl didn't need to know the particulars. "I was fighting for freedom. When it comes down to freedom, you always fight." It was another lesson from mama that stuck.

"Can you teach me?" she did not expect this question. Carl looked enthused at just the thought.

"Daddy doesn't want you to!" Judith squeaked out. "Besides, you can already shoot. I ain't allowed." She pouted at the thought.

"Why doesn't your daddy want you to fight?" It was Michonne's turn to ask the questions. This was not a world, or a time, where being meek was an asset.

Carl looked down. "He thinks I'm too young," he muttered.

Michonne considered this. She wouldn't be here for long, but she didn't want anything to happen to the children once she was gone. Rick couldn't be everywhere at once. "I'll teach you," she agreed, "Both of you." They brightened up, all smiles at once. Michonne smiled back. "BUT, you have to keep it a secret."

"We won't tell," Carl hastened to promise.

"Promise," Judith echoed.

"And you can't tell your daddy what we talked about today, ok?" She might have liked his children, but she was in no hurry to confide in a Confederate soldier, even one that claimed to be an abolitionist.

"Deal," Carl shook her hand, leaping up from the table. "Can we start now?" he asked.

"All right," Michonne stood up, smiling as they cheered. "Let's go in the big room."

-l-l-l-l-

He should have rode straight for the Greene's plantation, but something compelled Rick to take a turn, riding hard for a house he hoped was still there. It was five miles away, dead in the center of the woods, way out of the site of anyone who might stumble on it unwittingly. He began to see the signs as he neared, dismounting his horse and proceeding forward slowly. The last thing he needed was a knife in the leg.

"Jones," Rick called out quietly, knowing he had to be near enough by now. "It's Grimes."

There was a rustling from the bushes and all at once, Rick found himself with his back to a tree and a staff at his neck.

"Grimes?" Morgan Jones stared at him, confusion written on his face. His dark face was camouflaged beneath a hood, but hadn't changed much since they'd seen each other last. "What are you doing here?"

Rick exhaled, straightening up. "The dead," he said without delay. "Have you seen them?" he asked his old friend.

Morgan's eyes searched his face. Slowly, he nodded. "A couple of them came by the river. Never seen nothing like it before."

"They made it to my place," Rick told him. "Along with a woman."

"A woman?" Morgan's eyebrows jumped.

"I think she's the one you used to talk about. The one you were looking for." Rick's mind raced back in time, settling on the battlefield. Morgan had ambitions, even then.

"What's her name?" Morgan asked, his breath catching.

"Michonne," Rick answered.

Morgan lowered his staff. "She's with you?"

Rick nodded, rubbing at his throat where the wood had pressed in. "At my home. Something's happening, Morgan, something bigger than just the war."

Morgan nodded in agreement. "Might be judgement day," he mused. "If the dead are walking the earth."

"We survived it last time," Rick reminded him. "We can help each other again."

"What do you suggest?" Morgan leaned on his staff.

"We ally ourselves, somewhere easy to protect," Rick said. "I have fences, horses, weapons. You have the skills."

Morgan thought this over. "Does Michonne know this plan of yours?"

"I need you to convince her," Rick told his friend. Michonne wasn't going to trust him, not yet. He couldn't blame her.

"This ain't the war, Rick," Morgan looked at him hard. "You're willing to ally yourself with me? With her?"

Rick took a step forward. "I want the best people with me. You think things were bad before, just wait. Michonne says they're not just dead, but they're out for blood. If we're going to make a stand, we do it together."

Morgan smiled, "You ain't changed a bit," he chuckled, the sound rusty as though from disuse. "It's good to see you, Grimes," he extended a hand. Rick pulled him in for a hug.

"Where's Duane?" Rick asked. The boy never was far from Morgan's sight.

"We'll get him." Morgan looked off in the distance.

"Pack your things," Rick turned back to his horse. "I'll be back for you in the evening."

"Old times all over again, huh?" Morgan watched him mount.

"Let's hope not," Rick told his friend. With a wave, he snapped the reins, riding off.

He had one more errand.

-l-l-l-l-

The evening came early, heralding in more dark clouds. Exhausted, Judith had passed out in Michonne's arms. Michonne was still carrying the child, stationed at the window, squinting into the dark.

"He'll come back," Carl had set aside his hat, his hair sweat soaked. He was a quick study, taking to sword work with a precision that she admired. "He always keeps his promises."

Michonne smiled slightly at that. Whatever Rick was, his children loved him. "The Greenes," she began, careful to not wake Judith. "They're good people?"

Carl shrugged. "The daddy's a preacher. Daughters are nice enough," he turned his face upwards towards her. "They never had any slaves."

Michonne nodded, satisfied for the moment. "You trust them?"

Carl contemplated this. "We never really had to. We keep to ourselves out here."

"Why's that?" she asked.

Carl dragged his toe along the hardwood of the floor. "Before the war, there was always people over. Daddy had lots of friends. But he came back different. Then mama died and—" Carl broke off, sniffling.

Michonne had an arm around him at once, comforting him as best she could. He shook silently, wiping away his tears.

"C'mon," she reached for his hand. "I'll fix something for dinner. Your daddy will be hungry when he gets back," she smiled as kindly as she could.

Carl's lips began to twist in a grin, but his eyes quickly whipped back to the window. "Who's that?" he asked, urgency in his voice.

Michonne snapped to attention, quickly handing Judith to her brother. The little girl blinked herself away sleepily.

"Go hide," Michonne ordered. "Take the rifle."

"Miss Michonne—" Carl began to protest.

"I'll call if I need you," she promised him. "Go!"

She unsheathed her sword as Carl scooted from the room. Tentatively, she looked out the window again. A shape was moving out there, too quick to be the dead. She recognized that gait.

At once, she opened the door, hissing for him.

"Glenn!" she called.

He was up the stairs in a flash, almond shaped eyes wide, ebon hair wet against his forehead. "Michonne!" his voice broke in relief.

Michonne tugged him inside, heart pounding, unbelieving. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Looking for you!" he moved them away from the window, pulling closed the odd, lopsided blinds. Breathless, he took in her appearance. "What are _you_ doing here?" he asked her.

"You explain first," she said, turning as Carl came back into the kitchen, gun in one hand, sister in the other. Glenn's eyebrows jumped at the sight.

"The world's gone mad at there," Glenn told them. "Madder than usual, anyway."

Coming to stand beside the children, Michonne invited her friend to sit down. "Glenn, tell us what you know."

"Michonne, we've got trouble."


	5. Memories

**A/N: This chapter has got some historical context! Kudos to everyone who goes and looks it up. Thank you for all of your amazing feedback, and I hope you enjoy this next chapter.**

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 _"You're refusing to go, just like that?"_

 _His wife stood staring at him, hands on her hips and incredulous. Rick knelt down to untie his boots, mentally summoning his patience._

 _"Just like that," he told her, setting the shoes in the corner. "Planting time is coming up, and I'm needed here."_

 _"We could get people to handle that," she protested. "I could write my father—"_

 _"No." Rick put a stop to all that immediately. "Damn it, Lori, we've talked about this."_

 _"It would help!" she protested. "I'm all alone here, with Carl. We need help."_

 _"You're not alone," he reminded her, standing up to face her. "I'm here."_

 _"You won't be for long," Lori argued, close to tears. "They're going to take you and I'll be here with no protection."_

 _"I ain't going nowhere," he said. "We don't need slaves. It's all going to be fine."_

 _She stared at him, reproachful, disappointment written clearly on her face. "You can't dodge conscription. You live in this country too."_

 _"Not by choice," Rick felt the familiar tinges of frustration. "I ain't fighting to keep people in chains."_

 _Lori's temper fired up. "This is the way things are done down here. You're always pushing against the natural order of things"_

 _"Nothing's natural about it," he said. "Nothing is natural or right about treating people like that."_

 _"They ain't like us," she argued. "My daddy is good to them. He ain't like the others. We'd be good to them too."_

 _"Can't be good to a person you say you own," Rick was fighting to keep his voice down, determined not to wake Carl up again with this same song and dance._

 _"You sound like a Yankee," his wife accused._

 _Rick brushed past her, heading to see his son. "Good," he said, leaving her standing in the kitchen._

-l-l-l-l-

"Hershel, wasn't nothing natural about it," Rick called on his old neighbor's good sense, trying for the umpteenth time to convince him.

"Rick, you're talking crazy," Hershel's voice did not change from its measured tone. His accent was still colored with the proof of his heritage, betraying him for a Yankee despite his long years down south. Rick had taken a shine to the preacher immediately, attending church even while the neighbors whispered about him. Now, the older man stared back at him with something like pity. Rick felt his heckles rise.

"I ain't crazy, and you know that," Rick insisted. "Why would I make up a story like that? Ride all the way down here?" he looked at his neighbor expectantly. "All these years I've confided in you, and I start lying now?"

Hershel's expression softened. "Rick, I have no doubt you believe what you saw, but it could have been a trick of the light. Sometimes, even after death, the body can spasm. You've seen it with chickens, pigs…"

"This wasn't a farm animal," Rick said. "This was a man. David, the overseer from the Walsh plantation. You remember him?"

Hershel stopped, seeming alarmed for the first time. "He was on your property?"

Rick nodded. "Bloated as all get out, looking like he drowned. His head was lying out on the field, snapping away at me."

Hershel gripped the kitchen chair. "How'd his body get on your land?"

Rick hesitated. "That's what I'm trying to find out," he said, hoping the lie was convincing.

"We haven't seen anything like this, not in all the years we've been down here." He glanced nervously towards his stairs. Rick was willing to be that Maggie and Beth, Hershel's teenage daughters, were crowded at the top, listening in.

"You're a preacher. You ain't willing to take something on faith?" Rick questioned. Hershel shot him a warning look.

"Faith I've got plenty of. As for believing the dead are cavorting around, well…" he looked outside. The weather had cleared, the sun was up. "I'll wait until I see it."

"And what if that's too long? What if you're too late?" Rick crossed his arms over his chest. "Just come to my land, just for a few days. Make sure everything's ok."

"And leave my land undefended, all the carpetbaggers around here?" Hershel scoffed derisively. "I have a rifle, Rick. We'll be just fine."

Rick paused, wondering whether it was worth the effort. The shadows were getting long outside, and he had to get home. He had delayed enough as it was.

"If you see anything, you ride hard for my place, all right?" Rick reluctantly compromised.

"Same as during the war," Hershel agreed. "And you don't be a stranger. The girls would love to see those children of yours. I know it's been hard, since your wife passed."

Rick coughed, interrupting. This was not a conversation he was willing to have, not with an audience. "Come on by and see them sometime," he phrased it as friendly as he possibly could.

"Safe travels," Hershel dismissed him politely, walking him to the porch. Rick waved, spotting the girls upstairs in a window, watching him mount his horse. Rick sent up a prayer, hoping their father was right.

Turning tail, he spurred his horse into a gallop. He needed to get home.

-l-l-l-l-

"He's got a posse," Glenn said. "They're drunk as skunks."

"That's nothing new," Michonne muttered, checking the locks on the backdoor. She and Glenn had begun the process of fortifying the house. Carl and Judith were stationed at an upstairs window, playing lookout.

"Yeah, well they're looking for their friends. Claiming it's foul play," Glenn said. "Said four of them were missing."

"Five, actually," Michonne informed him lightly.

"Christ…" he swore, pausing his steps. "Michonne, did you—"

"They caught me in the woods," she told her friend. "Ended up chasing me to a river and drowning."

Glenn sighed in relief. "So their bodies will wash up?"

Michonne shook her head. "I've got bad news too," she looked around the halls, making sure the children hadn't snuck out. Glenn paled, but gave her his full attention. "They followed me, after they drowned."

He blinked, shaking his head as though he were shooing a fly. "I'm not understanding—"

"Neither am I," Michonne resumed their task. Glenn hurried after her.

"You're saying dead men chased you?" he asked.

"All the way to the fence out there," she confirmed, gesturing.

"Hell, where are they now?" Glenn looked around as though he expected one of them to be standing at the end of the hall.

"In pieces, six feet under," Michonne assured him.

"And you're in here, wearing this dress because…" Glenn prompted.

Michonne laughed despite herself. "I'm asking myself the same question."

"This Grimes fellow, he didn't do anything to you, did he?" Concern colored Glenn's voice.

"He saved my life," Michonne said. "I've been watching his children until he returns."

Glenn looked as though he didn't understand why, but charitably let it pass. "People talk about him in town too," he informed her. "He isn't well liked."

"Why's that?" Michonne asked, truly curious.

"He's got Northern sympathies, apparently," Glenn shrugged. "Some folks seem to think he turned traitor during the war. No one can prove it though. I guess he avoids going into town."

"They say anything about his wife?" she asked.

"His wife?" Glenn scoured his mind. "She's dead, I think. Guess people loved her. She came from some big plantation across the Mississippi. They say it's a shame she married for love."

"Where'd you hear all this?" Michonne questioned.

Glenn grinned. "You learn a lot when you can move quietly. And you know rebels. They can't wait to flap their gums about each other. Sit in a bar sometime and see for yourself."

"Your face was covered?" she asked.

"Obviously," Glenn rolled his eyes.

Their task finished, the two of them stopped, staring at one another. "You should have been in Canada by now," she told her oldest friend, almost regretful.

"And leave you down here?" he scoffed. "We finished our job. We're supposed to be enjoying retirement. Together," Glenn gestured between the two of them.

"I hear California is nice," Michonne smiled. "You wouldn't be the only face like yours over there."

"It's warm too," he agreed.

"Might be a plan, when Rick gets back," Michonne said.

"Let's hope he gets back soon," Glenn told her, shouldering his rifle. "I could use a holiday."

-l-l-l-l-

"You fitting to start another Jones County?" Morgan asked Rick.

The men were seated atop their respective horses. Duane, Morgan's young son, was stationed in front of his father. Rick hadn't seen him since he was nearly a baby. He favored his mother more so than the man behind him.

"Might be," Rick had toyed with the idea often, truth be told. "Mostly just trying to survive."

"We've done plenty of that," Morgan mused. His voice was low, calm. He hardly ever raised it, even in battle. "You think about the old days?" he asked Rick.

"All the time," his head was filled with almost nothing but regrets.

"We really thought we could make it work," Morgan smiled wistfully.

"Did a fair job of it, for a while," Rick glanced at him. "Black and white, getting along."

"Had plenty of you white boys once you got a taste of conscription. Never seen nothing like it." Morgan raised a brow. "You were turning tail in herds."

"Yeah, well, you can only do the wrong thing so long," Rick sighed. "Then you start losing sleep."

"You lasted what, two battles?" Morgan asked.

"Fought plenty of them after that," Rick countered. It was easy to fight once he switched sides.

"Fair enough," Morgan conceded. In front of him, Duane glanced curiously at Rick.

"You were in Jones County with my daddy?" he asked. "Did you know my mama?"

"I did," Rick nodded. "She was a good woman."

"Daddy says the same thing," Duane said.

"I was sorry to hear she got sick," Rick was beyond sorry. Morgan's wife had been the one who'd found him, half-starving and filthy, with only a rifle and a tattered grey jacket to his name.

"Heard you made it back to your wife after the war," Morgan said. "Heard ya'll had another baby."

Rick nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. "A girl," he confirmed, his mind on Judith.

"I was sorry to hear about her passing. I know you loved her, despite it all." Morgan whistled lowly at his horse, goading it forward.

"She wasn't perfect," it was an understatement. "But we loved each other once." It seemed ions ago.

"I was thinking we reach out to Theodore," Morgan wisely changed the subject. "He's in the area still. He was always handy in a fight."

"You got a way to reach him?" Rick asked.

"Sure do," Morgan offered no further information. Rick didn't mind. Even in Jones County, there'd been a line between black and white and he couldn't blame them. He wouldn't be in a hurry to share secrets with his oppressors either.

"Invite him in," Rick brightened at the prospect of seeing another old friend.

"This woman you mentioned," Morgan looked at him again as Rick's farm came into view. "What makes you think she's the one I was looking for?"

Rick turned in his saddle, resisting the urge to gallop the last mile. His horse was exhausted as is. "Her sword, for one. A Union saber."

Morgan's face lit up. "She had it?"

"Took out five of the dead with it," Rick reported, chuckling at Morgan's expression. "Made it to my house before collapsing."

"You took her in?" Morgan asked.

"Of course. What do you think I am?" Rick shook his head.

Morgan kept his opinion on that to himself. "Why's she still down south, I wonder."

"Maybe she's still freeing folks," it was Duane who contributed this, his smile bright.

"Maybe so, son," Morgan kissed his head.

"Guess you'll have to ask her yourself," Rick shifted in his seat, anxious. "We're almost there."

"What's she look like?" Duane asked. Morgan too looked interested. Both peered at him through large dark eyes.

"She's as beautiful as they say she is, maybe more so," Rick answered, his skin feeling hot.

"Is that right?" Morgan was giving him a knowing look that Rick didn't like at all.

"You'll see soon enough," he muttered, spurring his horse to a trot.

Morgan's laugh echoed behind him.

-l-l-l-l-

"You think he's going to be fine with this?" Glenn asked for the umpteenth time.

"Glenn, you've got to calm down," Michonne set a plate in front of him. Carl and Judith already had their portions and were sitting expectantly, watching the two adults.

"My daddy won't mind," Judith promised, staring at Glenn with a moony expression. She hadn't been able to take her eyes off the man since they all came down to the kitchen.

"He's fine with guests," Carl confirmed. "Miss Michonne is here," he said by example.

"See?" Michonne asked, humor in her voice.

"Yeah well, look at you," Glenn grumbled, still nervous.

Michonne crossed her arms over her chest. "Look at me, how?" she asked, daring him to say more.

"I'd let you in too, that's all I'm saying," Glenn wisely backtracked, his fingers drumming nervously on the table.

She shot him a warning look, lowering herself into the seat beside Carl. Carl took her hand, grabbing Judith's out of habit. Judith reached for Glenn's hand.

"Mr. Rhee, would you please say Grace?" Carl asked, bowing his head.

Glenn looked bewildered for a moment. "Uh….sure," he took Michonne's hand. "uh…Dear God, please bless this food…and us." He looked up at Michonne, begging for help.

"Amen," she said, resisting the urge to laugh.

"Amen," the children echoed. Glenn looked relieved.

"Should we wait for Daddy?" Judith asked, her spoon already in her bowl.

"Go ahead," Michonne gave her permission. "I'll make sure he eats when he gets back."

Glenn raised a brow at that, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

"Did you know Miss Michonne fought in the war?" Judith asked suddenly, her eyes still on Glenn.

"Judy…" Carl groused. "We aren't supposed to talk about that."

"He's not daddy," she protested. "Did you know that Mr. Rhee?" she turned back to their visitor.

"Uh, yes," Glenn looked amused. "I did too."

"Which side?" Carl asked sharply.

"Blue," Glenn said back. Carl nodded in approval. "I was a spy," Glenn added.

Two heads snapped around, eyes even wider than before. Michonne hid her laugh again.

"Well, Mr. Rhee. Tell them about it," she instructed, returning to her own meal.

"My pleasure," Glenn grinned, giving the children his full attention.

-l-l-l-l-

"Is that him?" Glenn asked from the window.

Carl and Judith were asleep, or at least in bed. Michonne had insisted. They were on pins and needles waiting for their father. It was increasing her nervousness.

Michonne hurried to join him, peeking out of the curtains. "Looks like it," she recognized that bowlegged walk.

"He's got people with him," Glenn said in surprise.

"Looks like we both collected a few strays," she joked. Glenn rolled his eyes. Michonne peered curiously at the new arrivals. Rick was chatting animatedly with a negro man and child.

"How many colored folks does he know?" Glenn asked in wonder.

Michonne was beginning to wonder the same thing. "I'm going outside," she announced.

"What? Why?" Glenn's head snapped up.

"So you don't surprise him in here," Michonne answered. "And to see who this man is."

"You sure that's a good idea?" Glenn asked. "If the dead are around…"

Michonne lifted her sword, shoving it into the belt around her waist. "I'll be fine."

"Course you will," Glenn's protests silenced immediately.

The ground was still wet as she trudged across the grounds, bemoaning the loss of her trousers. She was required to hold her borrowed skirt up to avoid sullying the hem, making her slow. She resolved to return this dress as soon as possible.

From afar, Rick was watering the horses, still chatting with his friend. He was smiling. The sight of it surprised her greatly. She hadn't considered the fact that he even knew how to smile. It made him look younger somehow. From beside him, the boy spotted her, tugging at Rick's shirtsleeve before pointing at her. Rick's head snapped up, his smile lingering for just a moment longer.

"Miss Michonne," he greeted, meeting her halfway across the field. "I have someone I'd like you to meet." He took her elbow, steadying her as he picked her way around puddles. Michonne tensed, but chose to allow it, just this once. No use upsetting him before asking for a favor.

"I do too," she cut straight to the chase. Rick looked surprised, but took it all in stride.

"Let's get inside," he turned, gesturing for his friend to join him. "Morgan Jones," Rick patted the man on the back. "This is Miss Michonne. Miss Michonne, this is Morgan Jones and his son, Duane."

"Jones?" her heart began to pound, memory filling her mind. "Of the Free State?" she asked.

"The very same," the dark skinned man smiled broadly, beyond pleased. "And may I assume you're the warrior of legend?" his eyes dipped to her sword, visible even in the low light.

Her eyes fell to Rick. He was standing beside them, nonplussed. "How do you know one another?" she asked, unsure which man she was speaking to.

It was Morgan who answered. "We have a lot to talk about, Miss Michonne," he grinned.

"Yes," she exhaled, her eyes still on Rick. "I'm guessing we do."


	6. Allies

**A/N: Wow, I am floored by the response to the last chapter. I'm so glad so many people find history as fascinating as I do.**

 **On to chapter 6! I'm excited for the chapter after this. We're going to hit the ground running...**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

"We always hoped you'd show up one day," Morgan watched her from his place at the table, a grin he couldn't quite calm still on his face.

Michonne sat across from Rick's new guests, tugging absentmindedly at her neckline, as though she was trying to free herself from the confines of the fabric. They were stationed around Rick's kitchen table, two pairs of friends and two pairs of strangers. The children were in bed, sent back (with Duane as an addition) after much hemming and hawing.

"I always had half a mind to," Michonne said, her voice apologetic. She used a softer tone in the presence of her friend, sweeter somehow. Her locs were beginning to fall loose from her coif, dusting down her face. Rick thought the look was becoming on her.

"What stopped you?" Morgan asked her, leaning forward in his seat, enraptured.

"I got busy," Michonne's mouth tilted at the corners at this. Even Rick had to chuckle. If just half the tales were true, busy did not begin to cover it.

"We heard that freeing slaves wasn't enough for you, but you were fighting the war too," Morgan looked impressed. "Heard ghost stories about the dark soldier with the sword."

"It was faster than freeing them a few at a time," Michonne sighed, her mind tumbling with some memory. "We were fighting for the freedom of all of us."

Morgan nodded in agreement, making a low sound in his throat. "People were wondering if it was you. How'd a woman manage that?" he asked. Michonne looked hesitant to respond.

"They didn't look too closely at the negro soldiers," Glenn imparted on her behalf.

Michonne smiled at him, looking at the Asian man with incredible fondness. Rick glanced curiously, ignoring the pang of envy that clenched his chest. "I pulled my hair back." She said, "Wore a hat, put on trousers."

"That's it?" Rick spoke up at last. He did not see how a man could not instantly recognize her for a woman. A quick glance at her dress confirmed it.

"That's it," she nodded at him, her arms coming up to cross across her chest. She fixed her gaze on him, as though daring him to press the subject. Rick refrained.

"And the sword?" Rick had been curious about it since he examined it the first night she arrived at his house. It was not a cheap artifact.

"It was a donated weapon, some family heirloom." Michonne shook her head at the memory. "We got last pick of the weapons. It was dull when I found it. Sharpened it with a rock."

"And got damn good with it," Glenn said with obvious pride.

Michonne shrugged. "There was lots of time to practice."

"How'd you end up here?" Morgan turned his attentions to the young man.

"Went to China first," Glenn said. "My parents wanted to keep moving west. We landed here."

"Where are they now?" Rick asked.

"Dead." Glenn delivered the news solemnly. Michonne reached for his arm, running a soothing hand to his shoulder.

"And you were in the war?" Morgan asked.

"There's not much room in this country for a man without a people. Northerners were always a little bit kinder to me. When I met Michonne, I knew I'd found my calling." Glenn grinned wryly.

"Freeing slaves?" Morgan smiled outright again.

Glenn nodded, but Michonne cast Rick a worried look. She didn't trust him, not yet. He wondered what he had to do to change that.

"How did you two meet?" she asked carefully, directing her question at Morgan.

Morgan took a breath, looking at Rick. "My wife, God rest her soul, found him wandering in the woods. They'd marched you how many miles, Grimes?"

"300-something," Rick recited. He remembered every single one, each step like a trudge to his doom. They'd had to force him from the house, away from Carl. He'd gone kicking and screaming, but they took him anyway.

"Marched them up to help in Vicksburg," Morgan nodded. "Rick here took one look at that battle and knew his heart wasn't in it." Morgan chuckled.

Rick still had trouble finding it humorous. The nightmares still haunted him. "I wasn't going to fight for a cause I didn't believe in," Rick clarified. He was acutely aware of Michonne's eyes on him.

"Healed him up, fed him up, got rid of that ugly gray coat," Morgan raised his palms, shrugging. "Turns out Rick had no problem fighting for a cause he _did_ believe in."

"You fought the rebels?" Glenn spoke up, clearly impressed.

"I did," Rick confirmed. Some of them had been friends, neighbors. It haunted him, even though he knew he'd been in the right.

Beside him, Michonne pursed her lips, an unreadable expression on her face.

"We made it work, Jones County," Morgan spoke up. Even when the war ended and family called Rick and I back here. We could make something like that work again."

"What are you proposing?" Michonne asked.

Morgan looked to Rick. "Well?"

"I'm proposing we ally ourselves," Rick cleared his throat. "Morgan, he's seen the dead walking the earth. Miss Michonne has already fought them. I killed one too." He paused, looking around the table. "Something's coming, and I know you all know it. We could be ready." He had to be ready this time.

"How?" Glenn asked.

"I've got weapons, horses, food," Rick listed. "I got fences. It ain't safe out there, not 'till we know what's going on. I'm proposing you all stay here, that we help each other. Protect each other."

"Live together?" Michonne questioned, her voice soft.

"Exactly. As equals," Rick clarified.

A silence settled around the table. Morgan was the first to break it.

"Duane and I, we'll be here," he assured Rick. Rick gratefully shook his hand.

Michonne shared a measured look with her companion. Glenn's poker face betrayed nothing.

"Take the night," Rick offered. "Decide in the morning." The grandfather clock in the big room began to ring heralding in the hour. It was midnight. Rick felt the exhaustion from the day settle on him all at once.

Glenn seemed amicable with this. "Where am I sleeping tonight?" he asked, yawning.

Rick stood up, "I'll show you."

-l-l-l-l-

"You're right," Morgan's voice was low as they checked on their children. Glenn and Michonne had gone off alone, under the pretense of retiring to their rooms. The men gave them their space.

"Right about what?" Rick bent to tuck Judith in, checking to make sure she was covered.

"Miss Michonne," Morgan paused in front of Duane, "She's a looker for sure."

Rick was glad for the dark as his face began to heat up. "I see why there are so many stories about her," he stood, moving towards Carl. "She's remarkable."

"Lots of our women are like that," Morgan mused.

"She's nothing like Lori," Rick found himself saying, the truth rushing out. He'd never seen self-sufficiency like the kind Michonne possessed. She never looked to anyone for assistance, not for anything. He'd felt her tense when he helped her across the muddy field, as though his touched pained her in some way. When he'd met Lori, she could barely lift a finger for herself. He'd deluded himself into think he'd toughened that southern belle up, into thinking love would be enough to change a person. In the end, nature had won out.

"Not to speak ill of the dead," Morgan said, "but all things considered, I'd say that ain't a bad thing," Morgan raised a knowing brow at him.

Rick couldn't fix his mouth to argue. He led his friend back into the hallway. Glenn and Michonne were at the other end, speaking in low, measured tones. Morgan and Rick paused, watching them.

"Think that's her man?" Morgan asked, for Rick's ears only.

Rick bit his tongue. He hoped not.

"Seems more like a brother, like you and me way back," Morgan speculated. His mouth was twisted into the slightest hint of a smile.

"Maybe," Rick tried for nonchalance, not quite succeeding. He'd always had a terrible time hiding his affections. He'd nearly fallen over the first time Lori had paid him any mind.

"I wouldn't worry too much about it," Morgan told him.

"Got enough to be worrying about here," Rick denied. Even so, it was lovely to have a person in his corner. He'd almost forgotten what that was like.

Morgan looked at him, a fondness settling over his expression. "It's good to see you, old friend," Morgan stepped away from him, heading back into the bedroom just beside the children's.

"Thank you for being here, old friend," Rick grinned, some small part of his soul finding relief just at this man's presence.

Glenn crossed up the hall as Morgan retired, looking brightly at Rick, despite the hour. "Thank you for your hospitality," he paused at the doorway. "And for taking care of Michonne."

Rick nodded. "It was my pleasure," he assured him.

Glenn stared at him, coming to some conclusion. "She doesn't have a lot of people like you who want to help her."

"I'd guess not," Rick felt shame for his race, a common emotion in Kings County, Georgia.

Glenn nodded, glancing back up the hall at Michonne. She had disappeared into her bedroom. "Have a good night, then, Rick."

"You too," Rick watched his ebon hair duck off to bed. His mind still raced, despite the lateness of the hour, so he set about the house, checking the locks. All was quiet both inside the house, and beyond its walls. Spent, he returned upstairs.

"Rick," he almost didn't hear her at first, so anxious was he.

"Miss Michonne," he paused before her room. She was stationed in the doorway, unease marking her features.

"Could we have a word?" she asked him, stepping out into the hall.

"Of course," her close proximity made him nervous. He'd once shared the room behind him with his wife, spending their nights together in much closer quarters than he and Michonne were now. He liked the look of Michonne in that room immensely. The thought troubled him, though not as much as her worried expression.

"You knew who I was, when you rescued me?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

"I didn't," Rick answered truthfully. "When I saw the sword, I began to wonder. When I saw you fight, I was sure of it." It was like all the legends coming true right before his eyes. It wasn't too many people that were quicker than he was on the battlefield, but Michonne moved with a fluidity that was enviable.

"And what is it that you were sure about me?" she asked, one eyebrow arching.

Rick paused, wondering what answer it was that she wanted. "I'd heard of you, of the work you did. Managed to get whole plantations over the border. No easy feat," Rick had been impressed, even as his neighbors had cursed this ghost who stole their property. "Didn't know you were a woman, not until Morgan and I met. He used to talk about getting free for real, of you showing up and leading them all to Canada." Stories of Michonne floated around that county like folktales. Rick had enjoyed them, even if he hadn't been sure of their veracity. You needed hope in a war. The woman who came to liberate gave them that.

"And you?" she took a step towards him. "Would you have gone to Canada if I had come?"

He would have been sorely tempted. Morgan had been enough to stoke that fire. This woman in front of him…he would have wanted to follow her. He inhaled, calming himself. "I had a wife," Rick said. "I had Carl. As good as Canada seemed, I had responsibilities."

She seemed satisfied by this, her eyes darting to the children's bedrooms. "So you came back," she finished for him.

"So did you," he pointed out. He wanted to ask why. America wasn't safe for a woman like her.

She stared at him for a long moment, her expression softening. "Thank you for your hospitality, Rick."

"It's my pleasure, Miss Michonne," he smiled at her. "Thank you for minding the children. They're mighty attached already." Judith had gone to bed talking about Miss Michonne and her handsome friend.

Her lips twitched in response. "I will see you in the morning," she told him, excusing herself back into the bedroom.

Rick watched her go, listening to the soft click of the lock on the door. He wandered down the hall, into his children's room, lying down beside his daughter. She curled her fingers in his hair immediately, settling against him.

"Dad?" Carl called his name from across the room. Rick raised his head to look at him.

"Yes, son?" he whispered.

Carl's eyes seemed to glow from his narrow cot. "Miss Michonne," he began, smiling sleepily. "I think she's one of us."

Rick smiled back. "I think so too, son."

Carl drifted off again, retiring to his pillows. Rick listened to their steady breathing, his mind turning. When he finally fell asleep that night, he was sure that Michonne and Glenn would be gone in the morning.

-l-l-l-l-

 _"You gotta find people in this world you can trust, child." Her mother knelt her down, staring into her eyes. Her hand was wrapped around Michonne's, her thumb pressing hard into the center of her palm. Mama only did this when she wanted Michonne to listen._

 _"How?" she'd asked. The weight of it all seemed to be crushing her, a pressure in her chest that felt liable to kill her._

 _"It ain't easy," Mama had said, sympathy in her tone, "Not for anyone, least of all for women like us. But you got to, baby girl. Can't no one get through this life alone."_

 _"I trust you," Michonne felt the embarrassing sting of tears. She wiped them away. Her mother grabbed her other hand._

 _"I wish it was enough. But I might not always be here. You need allies. You can't save the world by your lonesome."_

Michonne sat on the edge of her borrowed bed, her feet brushing the ground beneath her. She could hear the faint sounds of the other occupants of the house, their steady breathing. She focused in on the sound, wondering which one belonged to Rick Grimes.

She could not silence her thoughts about this man, nor her misgivings. He seemed the decent type, but other had seemed so in the past. Still, she'd never before been treated like this. His eyes were constantly on her, not with distrust, not with hatred, not even with lust. It was simply like he saw her, and was captivated by the sight. It made her uncomfortable, though not for any reason she was familiar with.

Sighing, Michonne pushed her feet to the ground, leaving her borrowed bedroom and heading for the one across the hall.

"Miss Michonne?" his dark eyes blinked blearily at her, confusion written on her face.

"Mr. Jones, could we have a word?" Michonne asked.

Confused though he was, Morgan joined her, exiting to the hallway with her.

"What kind of a man is Rick Grimes?" she asked him, fixing him with her best no-nonsense stare.

Morgan paused, glancing over his shoulder at the room Michonne knew Rick had retired to. She held her breath, waiting for the shoe to finally drop.

Morgan turned his eyes back to her. "Uncommonly kind," he told her, his voice steady.

Michonne nodded, heart hammering. "You trust him?"

"Many times, with my life, with my family," Morgan said. "As he trusts me. He's a good man, Miss Michonne. And not just for a white man."

Michonne nodded, her thoughts reeling even more so than before. "My apologies for waking you," she told Morgan, desperate to retire.

"It's no trouble at all," Morgan assured her.

Michonne returned to her room, her dress tickling her ankles. She stood for a moment, taking it in, the lace curtains, the throw rugs, the heavy wooden furniture and headboard. She'd never had a room like this, not in all her life.

Her decision made, she crossed the floor, pulling her dress off as she went, reaching for the clothes that were her own.

-l-l-l-l-

The room was empty when Rick woke up, his children's beds unmade. He bolted up, panicked, his clothing and hair askew.

"Carl!" he called for his son, beating a hasty path down the stairs. The house was silent, his footsteps echoing. "Carl!" he repeated, becoming frantic.

"Good morning," he nearly jumped out of his skin at the feminine voice. It was soon followed by the appearance of Michonne, dressed back in her trousers and shirt, her hair pulled back from her face.

"Miss Michonne," he stammered, trying to regain his decorum.

"Rick," she smiled at the sight of him. Rick became very aware of his appearance. "Carl is outside with Morgan and the others. They wanted to get an early start on reinforcing the fence."

"Good morning, Daddy," Judith made an appearance, waving at him brightly from behind Michonne.

"I was keeping Judith company until you woke up," Michonne stepped out of her way, allowing Judith to run towards him. Rick caught her in his arms, hefting her up.

"Why didn't you wake me?" he asked, attempting to shove his hair back into place with one hand.

Michonne smiled again. "You needed the rest. Morgan asked me to tell you that he sent word to Theodore today. He should be here presently."

Rick nodded at her, dumbfounded. "Thank you," he told her, unable to say more.

"You're welcome," she brushed past him. "I'll see you outside."

She was through the door before he could say more. Judith leaned her head on his shoulder, sighing. "I liked Miss Michonne's pretty dress," she lamented.

"I don't think Miss Michonne liked it," Rick told his daughter. She was getting too big to be held like this, but it never stopped Judith from seeking his arms anyway.

"Maybe she needs another dress then," she mused. "Something just for her."

"Maybe," Rick kissed her head. "Can you be a good girl in here by yourself?" he asked.

"I promise," Judith brushed a kiss on his stubble covered cheek.

"All right," he set her down. "Be good." He watched her scamper off towards the living room.

Any other day, he would have shoved his feet in his boots before heading outside directly. Instead he paused, rushing for the washroom to make himself presentable.

He had guests afterall.


	7. Merle

**A/N: Moving right along! I'm not sure how long I'll be able to keep up this pace, but I'll keep right along writing as long as I have the time. Thank you for the reviews, PMs, and support!**

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Carl ran into the house like a bat out of hell, breathless and sweating. "They're coming!" he yelled, frantic.

"Who is?" Michonne was on her feet at once, pushing her empty plate away from her. Rick was a split second behind.

"Son, breathe," he instructed, walking quickly towards him. Rick's hands on Carl's shoulders had an immediate calming effect, though the boy still panted. "Who's coming?" Rick repeated, kneeling to look Carl in the eye.

"Some men," Carl took a gasping breath. "From town."

The kitchen mobilized at once, people leaping to their feet. Half-eaten breakfast dishes and tin coffee cups clanged as the men leapt into action. Morgan seized Duane, hurrying him from the room. Their newest arrival, Theodore, brawny and bald, headed immediately for an axe sitting in the corner of the room.

"We'll be back when we hear the signal," he told Rick.

Rick nodded the affirmative, watching as Glenn scrambled around the kitchen, looking for his rifle. As he left the room, Judith burst into tears.

"What's happening?" she wailed, her panic betraying her young age. They'd all been sitting at breakfast just minutes ago, laughing happily. Judith seemed to thrive with so much company, happy for a house filled with voices and laughter. She'd taken to each one of them with an ease that surprised even Michonne. Theodore had only been there a day or two, but already Judith dogged his steps, asking him to tell her more stories about Anansi, the spider trickster.

Rick moved towards her, but Michonne beat him to it, sweeping the girl into her arms.

"We're going to go upstairs," Michonne told Judith, her voice calm and sweet and unnaturally high. "And you and I are going to put on pretty dresses and do one another's hair."

Judith wrapped her arms around Michonne's neck, still crying quietly. From the other side of the table, Rick watched them.

"I'll meet the men out there," he assured her. "Carl, grab a drink of water and wash up a few of these dishes, then we're going to head outside," Rick's voice was level, as though they did this song and dance every morning. Michonne wondered, not for the first time, what life had been like in Jones County. Morgan, Theodore, and Rick had fallen quickly into a pattern, operating together like they'd been living with one another for years.

Carl nodded, steadying himself. "It's going to be fine, Judy," he soothed his sister, already gathering cups from the table. Rick watched in approval. The back door of the house slammed shut as the men headed for the woods.

"You remember the plan?" Rick asked Michonne.

"Of course," she shifted Judith to her hip. "C'mon, pretty girl."

Still sniffling, Judith allowed herself to be carried towards the stairs. As they passed Rick, he laid a protective hand against the girl's back, bending down to drop a kiss on her forehead. It brought him in close contact with Michonne. Her breath hitched as his hair grazed her chin, his scent like soap and cedar wood filling her nose.

"Be careful," Rick whispered as he straightened back up, pausing to look her in the eye.

"You too," Michonne cautioned him, hurrying away from him and up the stairs. Judith settled down as she went through the all-important task of helping Michonne into the yellow dress. It was even tighter now than before, the result of regular square meals and a mattress to sleep on. She wiggled it over her hips, hastily pinning her hair up.

Judith ran to the window, pressing her face against the glass. "Daddy and Carl are out there," she informed Michonne.

Michonne took a rag, wiping at the tear tracks on Judith's face. "What are they doing?" she asked the little girl, determined to keep her distracted.

Judith shrugged. "Some boring stuff with the chickens."

Smiling despite herself, Michonne chanced a glance. The two were indeed fussing with the chicken coop. Carl seemed to be wrangling them back into the pen. His father was busying feeding them. Michonne watched as Rick bent over, seizing a feedbag and hefting it over one shoulder.

"Can we go outside too?" Judith asked.

"In a little bit," Michonne startled away from the window, fixing a smile on her face. Regretfully, she pushed her sword beneath the bed. "C'mon," she prompted Judith again, leading the child downstairs.

-l-l-l-l-

"Do you think Miss Michonne will be ok?" Carl asked him, his expression pained.

"We're not going to let anything happen to her," Rick assured his son. "Miss Michonne is smart, she can fight. Even if we weren't here, she'd be ok." He'd caught a glimpse of her in the kitchen window, Judith back on her hip. The little girl had been chattering away, her fear forgotten. The smile on Michonne's face as she gazed at his daughter almost made him forget the situation at hand as well.

When he saw the men approaching in the distance, he quickly sobered.

"What do I do?" Carl asked, his voice low.

"Let me do the talking," he instructed, tossing a handful of feed at the chickens. Picking up his hatchet, he started toward the group, Carl at his ankles.

"Permission to come on in?" the leader of the posse grinned gap-toothily from the saddle. Rick recognized him immediately.

"Depends, Dixon," he paused, staring up at him. He looked much the same as he had before the war, pale and leathery, with a smirk that smacked not of mirth, but trouble.

"Depends on what?" Merle Dixon was enjoying the game already.

"On what you're doing here," Rick leaned on the gate.

"Heard you hired some new help," Merle glanced up at Rick's house in the distance. Behind Merle, his brother stirred in his own saddle. Rick had never known his name. He took in the dark-haired teenager. He had an air of neglect about him, like a dog who was used to being beaten. Rick couldn't say he was surprised. The oldest Dixon and patriarch had drunk himself to death, but he was a mean cuss, the kind of overseer that even southerners thought was too cruel. Merle had taken his role after he died. Out of a job since emancipation, Merle was most often to be found kicking up trouble. The other three or so men behind Merle never strayed too far from him, backwoods boys with no formal education and not an acre to their name. They were down a few since the war, but the group still presented a problem.

"Might be," Rick tilted his head, bringing his attention back. "Don't see how it's any of your business."

"Heard she's pretty, for a nigger," Merle smirked. "Didn't take you for the type, Grimes."

"And what type is that?" Rick struggled to contain his anger, knowing that Merle was baiting him on purpose. He had half a mind to put his hatchet right between Merle's ugly eyes.

"You was always in town with that Yankee preacher, acting holier than thou," Merle laughed, a dry, bark-like sound. "Guess things change when you ain't got a pretty wife to warm your bed no more."

At his elbow, Carl began to flush, his skin turning bright red in anger. Rick shot him a look, willing his son to calm down.

"Hoo boy, looks like I pissed off the baby here," Merle raised his hands in mock surrender. "I meant no disrespect little Grimes. You gotta excuse us common folk."

Carl glowered but remained silent. Rick moved to put an end to this. "What is it you need, Dixon? I know you didn't ride all the way out here to talk smart." Rick's hands twitched around his hatchet handle. Merle didn't miss the motion.

"Coupla men went missing two weeks or so go, way down somewhere by the river. Now that the weather's done pissing on us, we're investigating. You ain't seen nothing unusual, have you?" Merle tilted his hat up, looking down at Rick.

"Besides this weather?" Rick shrugged. "No. You're welcome to look around though." He paused, "outside of the fence." Rick patted it to illustrate his point.

"Thank you kindly," Merle's smile did not reach his eyes.

"You're welcome," there was no warmth in Rick's voice. He stood, hands on his son's shoulders, staring the man down. With a reluctant whistle, Merle moved his men away.

"Should we give the signal?" Carl asked lowly as they walked back to the house. Merle and his men had disappeared off into the distance.

"Not yet," Rick was on edge. "Something ain't right yet."

"Will they be ok out there?" Carl's eyes darted into the distance.

"They're used to this kind of thing," Rick wished it wasn't true. "They'll be fine."

Still, his eyes lingered on the forest before he went back inside to check on the girls.

-l-l-l-l-

A half hour after they sent the signal, Michonne began to worry. Forty-five minutes after that, she was beside herself.

"Something happened," she whispered this lowly to Rick. "They should be back." Glenn never lost his sense of direction, and Morgan and Theodore supposedly knew this land like the back of their hands.

Rick frowned, his face creasing. He cast a nervous look at his children. Carl was making a valiant attempt to distract his sister, playing a game of pickup sticks on the parlor floor. "I'm going to go look," he told her, fingers drumming a nervous pattern against his leg.

"You can't go alone," Michonne protested.

"I'm not leaving the children here by themselves," he told her, voice still low. "And I ain't risking you."

"I can protect myself," she protested.

Rick looked distressed. He exhaled, face creased in thought. "We'll go outside, take a quick look. See what we can see."

"Together?" she asked, surprised he gave in so quickly.

"Grab your sword," he told her, nodding.

Michonne hurried away, meeting him on the porch. Rick was standing, hands on his hips, wearing a beat up leather jacket and holding a second one up for her.

"Can't risk a light," he told her, helping her into the warm garment. He tucked his hatchet into his waistband.

Michonne adjusted her sword beneath the jacket, "I know my way around in the dark," she assured him. "Let's go."

Surprisingly, he followed a half step behind her. "Maybe Morgan took them back to his camp," Rick muttered, more to himself than her.

"Maybe," Michonne hoped it was true. In just a few short days, she'd become accustomed to the presence of the men around her. Perhaps it was a residual of her old life, the sense of responsibility that she'd felt for the men and women in her charge as she led them across the country by night to Canada. Perhaps it was Morgan's calm demeanor and deep voice, Theodore's easy laugh and slight gapped smile, Duane's never-ending questions as he ran about the fields with Carl. She and Glenn were family already, bonded by the blood of the battlefield and experience. The others were quickly joining the ranks.

She led Rick through the darkness, pleased that he managed to be so quiet despite his inexperience. He lost his footing a time or two. Michonne reached out to steady him, clasping her hand around his wrist.

"How are you doing this in a dress?" he asked in awe, wincing as a tree root connected with his toe.

"Practice," she allowed herself a small smile. Rick always took a similar tone when he dared to ask her about her past. He sounded almost like his son waiting for a story.

"I can see why you prefer pants," he whispered, chuckling lowly.

Michonne clung to the distraction, desperate for a relief from her worry. "I don't mind dresses, not really," she told him, stepping lightly, looking for evidence of their friends.

"No?" Rick sounded surprised.

"I just never had one of my own," she shrugged. "And this one doesn't really fit." She felt better with the jacket over it, less exposed.

Rick digested this. "Lori, my late wife, she was rail thin. Sometimes I had to remind her to eat," he said.

Michonne paused. Rick had never spoken of his wife before in her presence. "I never needed to be reminded to eat," she said, attempting levity, "Any chance I got, I took it."

Rick smiled at her, looking at her with obvious fondness. "Well," he mused. "There's never been a pair of women so different as you."

Michonne raised her brow in surprise. She suspected Rick meant this in more than just looks. "How did you meet?" she ventured, still picking her way around his grounds.

"Her daddy's plantation," Rick recounted quietly. "My family was sharecroppers."

Michonne had supposed Rick hadn't come from money, but the realization that his wife did startled her. "She was a plantation-owner's daughter?"

"She was," Rick sighed. "Moved away with me for love," his tone did not match the romantic nature of his words. Perhaps he noticed because he moved to amend them. "It was good for a while," he told her. "Then the succession happened."

"Why did that make things unhappy?" Michonne wondered aloud.

"We disagreed on it. Turns out we disagreed on lots of things. She couldn't keep pretending anymore, I guess," he sighed as though the whole issue still exhausted him.

Michonne could think of nothing to say. She paused in her steps, trying to regroup her thoughts, attempting to focus on the task at hand. Rick silenced, glancing around.

"Any sign of them?" he asked lowly.

Frustration returned, and fear. "Someone's been here," she gestured to the forest ground. "But I'm not a skill enough tracker to—"

The sound of horses in the distance killed her words before they could leave her mouth. She ducked down, heading for a cluster of bushes, tugging at Rick's arm. She shoved him in before he could protest, climbing in after him.

They came into sight suddenly, lit by the low glow of a few lanterns and torches, four men on horseback, chattering excitedly. She knew the leader by sight if not by name. Her heart clenched when she saw the others, hands tied together, being led in a line behind the animals like sheep to the slaughter. Glenn was tied between Morgan and Theodore, with Duane just in front of them. The only one not bleeding was the child.

Rick inhaled sharply, anger practically radiating off of him. He gripped the hatchet at his side. Michonne's mind raced, calculating. On foot, she could take them. Mounted like this…

She quickly reached over, stilling Rick's hand with her own. He looked at her, incredulous. Silently, she begged him to stay still. The group passed on, the forest darkening as they got further off.

"We need to rescue them," Rick practically growled. There was a rage inside of him, one Michonne recognized intimately but had never seen before in the usually stoic farmer. "We should have rescued them." He paced restlessly, looking like he was about to chase them up the path.

"We will," Michonne reached for him again, attempting to calm him. His skin was hot, burning below the surface. He glanced at her.

"If we ambush them…" he began.

"They'll kill us all. One of them had a crossbow," Michonne pointed out. "We'd all be dead before anyone got free."

Rick looked on in distress, only half hearing her. "We have to…" he repeated.

"We _will_ ," she squeezed his arm, bringing his attention back to her. "I've done this before. But we have to be careful." He turned his head to her, blinking away his rage, his eyes dropping to her hand on him. Michonne released him.

"What do we do?" he asked, voice hoarse.

"We need horses," she told him, already moving back to his farm. "And we need to be quick. We have to beat them to town."

Rick followed, "What else?"

"Tomorrow's Sunday," Michonne said. "Courthouse will be closed."

"A man like Merle ain't going to wait for the law to handle anything. He's not going to the courthouse." Rick practically spat the words.

"Exactly," Michonne said. "He's going to wait till everyone is in church, good and distracted." She'd seen enough lynchings to know. "That's when we strike. But we need a place to hide them."

Rick swallowed, his expression grim. "I know a place," he told her.

"Good," Michonne began to run, streaking for the house. "Then we leave Carl in charge, and we go."

Rick did not look thrilled by the prospect, but ran alongside her.

"All right," he agreed.

Together, they raced off into the darkness.


	8. When the Dead Come Marching

**A/N: Thank you for all of your feedback! I'm enjoying reading all of your commentary and PMs. I hope you like this next one!**

* * *

The sun was beginning to rise, lending the world a water-colored hue. The townspeople, not one for idleness, were beginning to move already, preparing for church services. It was a beautiful morning, the kind that Rick had once looked forward to, a sabbath day filled with the promise of relaxation. The experience of watching the sunrise with a beautiful woman beside him was severely diminished by the task at hand. They were within spitting distance of the town center, the spiral of the church rising up like a needle in the early morning light. Rick had the vague realization that Hershel was probably inside, preparing for the morning sermon. Just in front of them though, they were listening to a sermon of a different kind.

"I'm going to give you one more chance," Merle strutted in front of the tied captives, looking like he was doing his best impression of Napoleon parading around for his troops. "What happened to our boys?"

He was met by stony-faced silence. Duane trembled slightly, but kept his chin up, looking very much like his father beside him. Theodore's eyes were swollen shut yet he still managed stoicism. Glenn, bleeding and struggling to stay up, finally answered, his voice cold.

"We told you," he stated calmly. "We don't know what you're talking about."

Merle looked amused, leading a chorus of drunken hooting and hollering. "You expect me to believe that three niggers and a chinaman was just hiding out in the forest? Having a little party?" With another cruel laugh, he slapped Glenn clean across the face. From inside the clearing, Rick saw the youngest member of Merle's party flinch. From beside him, Michonne tensed.

"When?" he asked lowly. They were steadily losing the cover of darkness.

In response, Michonne drew her sword. "On my mark," she whispered back.

Rick gripped his hatchet.

"Guess there's only one thing to do then," Merle stood up, pantomiming making a decision. His men laughed, though his little brother remained silent and sullen. "We better string them up, make sure they ain't out here terrorizing anymore good white folk."

A cheer went up, even as a shudder ran through the group of Rick's friends. Someone produced a rope, already tied in a noose.

"We've only got one, boss." One of Merle's stooges spoke up.

"Guess we'll do 'em one at time," Merle was nonplussed. "Who's first?" he looked expectantly at the group. "What? No volunteers?" he mimed shock. "Well then, let's start with the youngest."

He seized Duane around the shoulders, laughing at Morgan's distressed cry. Michonne tapped Rick on the shoulder, drawing his attention to her, motioning for him to go around the other side. Rick got the idea quickly. She moved in, he mirroring her, staying out of sight. She was beelining for the teenager with the crossbow.

"Wait a minute," the young man found his voice at last, grabbing for his brother. "Merle, he's just a kid." He protested, putting himself in between the boy and his brother. "This has gone far enough. He's just a kid." The teenager sought to tug Duane from Merle's grasp.

"He's a nigger," Merle stressed the word, anger flashing across his features. His voice lost its joviality, becoming deadly serious, laced with poison. "And I'd move if I was you, little brother, unless you want to be next."

The young man hesitated, muscles tight, expression pained. "Merle," his voice was low, pleading. "He's just a kid."

In answer, Merle leveled him with a punch, knocking him to the ground. The young man went down hard, his crossbow bouncing from his hands as he covered his bloody nose. Merle stepped forward right over his bleeding brother, noose in hand, throwing it up onto a low branch.

"Let's hurry this up, boys," he called to his posse. "Can't be late for church." Another laugh went up, with less enthusiasm. From Merle's feet, his brother swiped at his boot, making a weak attempt at holding him back. Merle kicked his fingers away, eager to get to his task. "Ready?" he asked Duane, his tone filled with mirth. Rick gathered his feet beneath him, ready to spring.

From across the clearing, Michonne emerged, sun shining behind her, her sword gleaming. The first man met his maker at the end of her weapon before the rest even realized anything was happening. Merle's brother was first to notice, scrambling across the ground for cover, shock evident on his face. Michonne kicked the bow farther from his hand, spinning to stab at another man behind her. The young man fell back in surprise, staring up at her with wide eyes.

"Hell!" Merle gave a shout of surprise, fumbling in his waistband for his gun. Rick rushed from his place, hitting Merle with the force of a ton of bricks, knocking his pistol to the wet ground. Panic seized the group at once, their shouts of terror ringing out.

"Help!" Merle let out a cry like a wounded animal, screaming like a maid. "Help!" his yells echoed through the town. Rick raised a fist, smashing it into Merle's mouth to silence him.

Michonne flicked the blood from her blade, ignoring the screams of terror. She advanced, her hair streaming behind her, moving quickly, dropping a second man with a mortal would to his abdomen. With another swing, the noose became nothing more than a frayed piece of rope, cut cleanly down the middle. Its strands fell uselessly to the ground as his posse scattered like roaches. "Get them!" she commanded Rick, pointing at their friends.

Rick's hatchet made short work of the rope binding his companions. "Let's go," he barked at them, guiding a dizzy Theodore backwards into the forest. He'd clearly taken the worst of the beatings and was clinging to consciousness. Glenn stood up, quickly taking Rick's spot.

"Help her," Glenn instructed Rick, gesturing to Michonne. "I've got this." He grabbed Theodore's arm, supporting him with a strength that caught Rick unaware.

"There's horses," Rick told him urgently. "Two hundred yards off."

With a nod, Glenn set off for them, Theodore in tow.

Morgan was on his feet, rushing for his son. Duane lay in an undignified heap on the forest floor, dazed. The last of Merle's posse rushed the boy, taking a hold of his arm. Morgan knelt, seizing a thick branch from the ground. The man restraining Duane met a quick end, falling unconscious to the ground as he took a stick full to the face. Rick's hatchet finished the job, landing with a sickening thud between the man's ribcage. Morgan had his son in his arms in seconds, disappearing into the woods at record speed.

Merle was screaming indiscriminate curse words through bloody teeth, caught in the middle of the fray. He scrambled across the floor, groping for his pistol. He struggled to load his gun, his drunken fingers trembling.

"Daryl!" he called to his young kin. "Kill theses sons of bitches!" he pointed not at Michonne, but at the retreating men.

From the ground, Daryl scrambled to gain his footing, clearly panicking. His eyes fell on the crossbow that lay between them. Both Michonne and Rick lunged for him.

"Do it!" Merle screamed, running for the town. Rick could hear a commotion now, the sounds of the townspeople realizing that all was not peaceful this Sunday morning. He only had minutes now to get Michonne to safety. He needed to end this quickly.

Daryl paused for a moment before rushing forward, grasping his weapon. He captured it, struggling to stand, bow in hand, shaking and bleeding down on the forest floor. He raised it, trembling, at Michonne. Rick felt fear pierce him, even as he raised his hatchet to the young man. He never got the chance to strike. Michonne made eye contact with Daryl, her eyes burning into him. Without a word, Daryl dropped his weapon, raising his hands in surrender.

"I don't want no part of this," he sobbed. "No part," he repeated, blood and sweat coating his face. He kicked the crossbow towards Michonne.

"Coward!" his brother shouted at him, even as he turned tail. "Traitor. No good son of a –"

All of Merle's insults dissolved into screams as Rick's hatchet came down, cleanly severing his hand from his arm at the wrist. Merle howled, hollering loud enough to wake the devil.

From behind them, off at the church, screams of a different kind went up. Rick's blood ran cold.

Michonne spun on her heel, eyes wide in horror. From behind the hill, rising like the sun, a herd of the dead were emerging. Negro and White alike, the dead made their march towards Kings County like the hand of judgement. Snarling, dripping gore, they fell on the town. Chaos ensued immediately.

"Oh my God," Michonne breathed. She reached for Rick's arm.

"Hershel," Rick had a sudden, panicked thought. "My friend, his daughters…"

"Rick," Michonne protested, attempting to stop him from running.

"Go home," he instructed, urging her in the direction that the men had disappeared, "I'll meet you." He was loathe to leave her, but neither could he abandon his friend to whatever carnage was falling on the town.

"You're not going alone," Michonne insisted. "Rick, there's nothing you can do—" she doubled back, reaching for him again.

The rest of her argument was lost to him. Rick caught her hand, dropping a kiss on it. Reluctantly, he let her go, leapt over a bleeding Merle, and rushed for the church. The dead had reached the outskirts, breaking over the town like a crimson tide.

The panic was horrible, worse than anything he'd ever seen, even the battlefields.

"The church!" Rick shouted, grabbing arms, redirecting folks. "Get to the church!"

It took a few moments, but eventually others echoed the cry. People were falling, screaming, stampeding over one another, rushing for the sanctuary of the church. Rick spotted his friend's silver hair up at the front, guiding people inside.

"It will be all right," Hershel's normally calm voice was strained. "Don't shove—"

His warnings went unheeded. Panic seized the crowd and at once they began to fight each other, each scrambling to save himself. Hershel was knocked to the ground as the people surged forward, pushing one another down.

Rick reached his friend, yanking him to his feet. "Your girls," Rick demanded, shaking him. "Where are they?"

"Rick," Hershel's eyes were fixed on the dead rampaging. Blood sprayed through the air, mixing in with screams.

"Your daughters," Rick repeated. He needed Hershel to focus.

"The church," Hershel began to sob openly. "They're inside—"

Rick seized him again, dragging his friend up, pulling him towards the door. The townsfolk were pulling the doors shut. Rick got between them, shoving Hershel inside before him.

"Rick!" his name startled him. He turned, holding the door open just a crack.

Michonne was rushing towards him, her yellow dress covered in blood, Merle's brother dogging her footsteps. Rick reached for her, grabbing her arm. He pulled her hard, yanking her into the safety of the church, the teenager behind her. She hit him full in the chest. Behind her, the door closed.

"Bar it," Rick shouted the order at once.

The calmest of the townsfolk set about obeying him, pushing pews against the doors. Rick took a moment, staring at Michonne, startled by her crimson-stained outfit.

"It's not mine," she assured him.

"You're not supposed to be here," he felt fear, real fear, for the first time that morning.

"I'm with you," she told him, all confidence, even as she sheathed her sword. "So what's the plan?"

-l-l-l-l-

Michonne watched in shock as Rick sprinted away from her, headlong into danger. The echo of his touch still lingered on her hand. She called after him, yelling herself hoarse, but he didn't turn.

It was a fool's errand. She knew that in her heart, even as her desire warred with her logic. She should turn, run after Glenn, flee for the farm. She should leave Rick Grimes to the fate he chose.

Instead, she spun on her heel. "You," she pointed at the teenage boy she had spared.

He froze, eyes wide. "Ma'am?" he asked, clearly terrified.

"Want to prove you're sorry?" she asked him.

He nodded, swallowing hard.

"Then grab that bow," she kicked his crossbow at him, "And stay close to me."

"We're going in there?" he asked.

"Unless you'd rather stay here with him," Michonne gestured to his brother. Merle was still swearing and thrashing about, cursing them to hell and back.

Without another word, the boy picked up his weapon, flanking her. "I'm Daryl," he told her, offering his hand.

"Michonne," she shook it. "Let's go."

She took off towards the town, Daryl on her heels. It didn't take long for the dead to notice them as they pushed into the town. If Daryl was afraid, he didn't show it. His crossbow thrummed as he took out the dead that were in their path, even as Michonne swung her sword, mowing as many down as possible. Gore splashed around them, turning her stomach. Fighting dead men left a stench.

"Where are we going?" Daryl asked her, ducking as she swung at an enemy behind him.

Michonne took a moment to look, searching for Rick. She spotted him at the doors of the church.

"There!" she pointed, already running. The townsfolk were forcing the door shut. Rick was struggling against them, holding onto a silver-haired man with one hand, and propping the door open with the other. "Rick!" she called his name, desperate.

He turned around, eyes wide. With a shove, he got his companion through the doors. He immediately reached for her. Michonne took a leap, rushing for him. He caught her around the waist, yanking her inside. Daryl ducked in behind them. Rick's eyes fell to her dress. Michonne became aware that she was covered in blood.

"It's not mine," she hastened to assure him.

Relief flickered over his face for just a moment, before being replaced with worry. "You're not supposed to be here," he told her.

Michonne stood panting, clutching his arm, dizzy. The church doors closed. "I'm with you," she promised him. "What's the plan?"

Rick looked around, his mind clearly strategizing. "One second," he set her down. "I'll be right back."

Michonne took a moment to catch her breath are Rick released her, shouting orders as he rushed around. She watched him, wondering again what it was about this man that compelled her to trust him. He made his way back to her.

"I wish you'd have followed Glenn," Rick's distress was clear. His eyes raked over her, pausing on the blood-soaked fabric of the once-yellow dress.

"They're capable," Michonne assured him. "They'll make it home."

"It ain't them I'm worried about," Rick told her.

"Well, if you hadn't have run off, we both could have been gone," she attempted to lighten the mood, her heart hammering against her ribcage. Adrenaline was pulsing through her.

"I didn't think you would follow," he said. "You've got no relation to Hershel or his girls."

"I'm not here for them," she said.

This silenced him. "We need to secure the exits," he said at last. "Then we'll find a plan to get out of here."

"You lead," she nodded, willingly relinquishing control. Exhaustion was sinking in. She realized that it had been almost 24 hours since Merle had shown up at the gates of Rick's farm.

"I'll be right back," he repeated. "Stay safe." He was gone in a moment, making his way to the front of the hall. Michonne took a moment to observe her surroundings.

Of the fifty people sequestered into the narrow hall of the church, only three were negroes. Michonne was painfully aware of this reality as the citizens of Kings County crowded to the center, leaving her lingering near the door with the two other people of her race. They stood with her, a man and a woman, their dark faces reflecting the uncertainty that Michonne felt.

Rick had shouted before he left for the townspeople to bar the door. No one moved, but now they all looked at Michonne and her two companions expectantly.

The girl edged closer to Michonne. She was younger than her by a few years, though strong, her skin lighter, the curl in her hair softer. Her partner was a large, barrel- chested man, dark skinned, brawny and bearded. He was attracting far more of the stares than the woman.

"Well?" a portly and red-faced man shouted at them expectantly. "Bar the door."

The three of them glanced at one another, the moans of the dead outside warring with their pride. Reluctantly, the largest of them began to drag a church pew over. The woman moved to help him. Sighing, Michonne knelt to the task as well. She questioned what had driven here, running towards the battlefield after a white man she barely knew. Perhaps logic did not enter the equation.

"What are you doing?" Rick's voice drew her attention. The three of them dropped the pew like naughty children being scolded. He was standing up near the altar, his arms filled with linen cloth, his hatchet still hanging from his side. "Not you," Rick's tone softened as his eyes landed on her. "I asked you to bar the door," Rick turned to the man who'd spoken first. "Y'all are just going to stand there and let women do it?"

His tone was scathing, anger plain on his face. Michonne was almost startled. He was so gentle with his children, with her on his farm. She had seen a side of him today that was unknown to her. She did not find it altogether unappealing.

"Miss Michonne," he gestured for her to step away from the rattling doors. "Miss—" he paused, looking questioningly at the other woman.

"Sasha," shock was evident on her face.

"Miss Sasha," Rick stepped up, taking the women's place. "Could you and Miss Michonne please go to the rectory? The preacher needs your help. And Mr.—"

The man looked just as startled. "Tyreese," he volunteered the information reluctantly.

"Mr. Tyreese," Rick gestured. "Could you help me with this?"

Sasha looked as reluctant as her companion, but Michonne tugged gently at her arm. The tension in here was unbearable, the dead at the outside, the living stewing away in here. For all her skill, this was not her arena.

"Now wait a minute," the red-faced man was hollering again. "Who the hell put you in charge?" There was a faint clamor from a few others who seemed to agree with him. Michonne fingered the hilt of her sword, readying herself. She was unsure which threat she would prefer to face.

"I put myself in charge, Ed," Rick's voice was full of an uncharacteristic venom. "Or did you forget you was a second away from dying a few minutes ago?"

"I won't be taking orders from a nigger-lover," Ed protested.

Michonne felt her hand whip to her sword, but needn't have stressed it. In three steps, Rick closed the distance between him and his adversary, leveling a punch that echoed through the church hall. A cry went up, with several people jumping back and few springing forward. Michonne took a step towards Rick, determined to watch his back. Rick yanked Ed back up by the starched collar of his church clothes.

"You got two choices, Ed," Rick leveled with the man. "You help, or you leave." Rick pointed to the door, still rattling. "That goes for all of you," Rick announced.

The church was silent, and for a moment, Michonne wondered how many of the dead she could take out to get herself and Rick away.

"C'mon," it was Daryl, the younger brother of Merle Dixon who stepped up first. He wiped the blood from his face on his sleeve before taking Sasha's place at the pew, helping to lift it. Slowly, the other occupants of the church fell in line. Michonne watched in amazement.

"Should we go to the rectory?" Sasha's voice startled Michonne.

"Right…" she led the woman towards the back. It was difficult to keep her composure as the dead clawed at the walls and windows. Sasha trembled beside her.

"That man," Sasha began once they were out of earshot of the group. "You know him?"

"I do," Michonne confirmed.

"He's a rebel?" Sasha was clearly confused. Michonne couldn't blame her.

"He was part of the Free State of Jones," she disclosed. "He's a kind man."

Sasha was skeptical, but accepted this. "You trust him?"

"I do," the words left Michonne's mouth immediately, surprising even herself. She shook her head, clearing the thoughts. There would be time to dwell on her change of heart later. First, they had to survive this.


	9. The Church

**A/N: Thanks as always for the feedback! I'm doing double duty with my web series and this story, but having a great time with these action scenes!**

 **I hope you all enjoy**

* * *

The groaning did not cease, not even as the morning stretched into the afternoon. Michonne attempted to estimate the hour but came up short. It was dark inside the church, humid and dank, the air filled with the smell of sweat inside, and the stench of the dead from outside. Rick had instructed that the windows be covered with linens, an idea that had calmed the dead down considerably. They had stopped throwing themselves against the walls, but now milled about, moaning and aimless, like cattle in a pen.

"We're going to die in here," a young blonde girl sniffled. "Just like mama."

"Beth hush," her older sister, a brunette, chastised her. "What kind of talk is that?"

Michonne glanced at the two sisters. The eldest had just reached adulthood and it showed. She had spent the better part of the day reassuring her sister and their father, the preacher. The old man seemed kind enough, but whatever it was that had compelled Rick to risk his life for him, Michonne couldn't say. Then again, she'd chased Rick straight into this death trap. It seemed that affection did not require reason.

"How are we going to escape?" the blonde, Beth, began to sob. "We're gonna die, Maggie."

"Rick will sort it out," Maggie's voice held the utmost confidence. "He's been in tighter spots than this." She looked up, her green eyes catching Michonne. "Ain't that right, Miss Michonne?" she asked.

Michonne cleared her throat, surprised. She'd been largely ignored since she came in here, speaking only to Sasha, Tyreese, and Rick. "He's a soldier, and he's not the only one in here. No one is going to die." She was sure it was a lie, even as it left her lips, but she was in no hurry to panic this child worse.

Maggie was satisfied by this. "See? They've got it sorted. I'm sure he's working on it with daddy right now."

"Why don't I go check?" Michonne was eager to get out of these pews and away from this crowd. People had been sobbing on and off all day, utterly resigned to their fate. She'd never seen such helplessness, even on the plantation. She felt angry at it, at this group of people who had no qualms watching others suffer but collapsed at the first sign of trouble. She stood up, heading for the rectory, looking for Rick. He'd disappeared a half hour ago.

"Don't leave!" the girl squeaked, terrified. "Daddy said you can kill those things." She gestured to the shadows moving beyond the stained glass church window.

Michonne froze, exasperated. She spotted Daryl a few yards off, looking as out of place as she felt. She called him over.

"Ma'am," Daryl was all nervous energy, unable to meet her eyes.

"Do you mind watching the ladies while I'm gone?" she phrased it as a suggestion, but both she and Daryl knew better.

"You lookin' for your man?" he questioned, already stepping up to take her place. "He's in the back."

Michonne nodded, distracted by his phrasing. Even Maggie and Beth looked up interestedly. Michonne quickly hurried off. She found Rick, as promised, behind the altar, stationed in a small room. He was inspecting a door, his brow furrowed.

"Found something?" she asked quietly, trying not to scare him.

He jumped a bit anyway. "Miss Michonne," he looked relieved, his face relaxing.

"You know," she ventured, taking slow steps toward him. "You don't have to call me 'miss'. My name is just fine."

His lips tilted in the hint of a grin. "Southern manners," he shrugged by way of explanation.

She shook her head, letting out an unladylike snort, "They don't mean much around here."

He digested that, looking distressed once more. "I hope you know that I mean them," he told her. "It ain't just for show."

"I know," she assured him, joining him at the door. He relaxed again, just marginally. "What are you looking at back here?"

"Trying to figure a way out," he sighed. "The dead are everywhere. Even if we could distract them, maybe a handful of us could escape but…" he turned, looking back at the crowd just through the door.

"Might be our only option." Frankly, Michonne was in no hurry to leave with some of these people. She wondered if she could get Sasha, Tyreese, and the Greene family out with she and Rick.

Rick released another sigh, clearly exhausted. "I don't know what we're going to do with them, even if we get them out," he said.

"Why do you have to decide that?" she asked.

He glanced at her. "You've never felt responsible for folks?"

Michonne paused. "Of course I have, but…" she searched for a way to phrase it.

"I know," he told her, his voice gentle. "I know it's different. I know more than half the folks in there don't deserve a lick of sympathy." He turned around, directing her to look out into the church. "But you see her?" he pointed at a mousy young woman. She was clutching her stomach, obviously pregnant. "Her husband is the one I hit earlier. It ain't no secret that he beats on her too." Rick sounded disgusted by the thought. "And that boy, the one you spared? What kind of life do you think he had under Merle's thumb? And Sasha and Tyreese? Their parents got sold down the river when they were just kids." Rick sucked at his teeth.

"We can't save everybody," she reminded him of the harsh reality. It was a hard-learned lesson.

"No," he agreed. "But maybe a few of them. We're going to need people to get through this. Can't no one do this alone."

His words startled her, her mama's voice echoing in them. "You've got me," she told him. "And your children. We need to get back to them." Her mind wandered to those two little ones, not for the first time today. She wondered how they were managing.

"We will," he promised her. "We need your help. You're the expert at getting out of tight spots."

"I need a map," she told him. She'd thought this through since the moment she ran through the church door. "I don't know this town well enough."

"All right," Rick nodded eagerly. "Let's go." He led her back out, past the girls, toward the rectory.

"You can't go in there," Beth called after them, aghast. "Daddy's praying."

"Sure I can," Michonne opened the door, stepping inside to illustrate her point. Rick chuckled lowly behind her, reaching for the door to hold it open. The sounds of sniffling and groaning outside faded to a dull hum as they entered the room.

"Ma'am, you can't be in here," the preacher looked startled by her arrival. He was kneeling towards a crucifix on the wall. He'd clearly been crying.

"Hershel, she's with me," Rick spoke up, offering Michonne a smile. "And we could use her help." He straightened up, shooting his friend a warning look. Hershel silenced, but didn't take his eyes off Michonne or her blood-splattered appearance.

"I'm asking the Lord for help," Hershel turned back to the cross.

"And I'm sure He's listening," Rick said kindly. "He already sent us Michonne."

Both she and Hershel startled at that. Michonne felt herself begin to flush. She offered up a silent thanks to God for her dark skin as Rick looked at her, pride clear in his expression.

"Who is she?" Hershel rose slowly from his knees, confused.

Rick stepped in. "You've heard of her, even if you don't know it, Hershel. This is the woman you discussed with me all those years ago."

Understanding dawned. "You led slaves to their freedom," Hershel said, amazement written clearly all over his face.

"I led people to their freedom," she corrected. This man irritated her, though she doubted she could ever explain to Rick the reason why. There were plenty of Yankees like this, progressive, outspoken, and ultimately silent when it came down to fighting for their principles. It had taken Rick the better part of an hour to get the congregation settled down, assuring that Sasha and Tyreese and herself wouldn't be attacked. The preacher had been scarce through the whole affair.

"Hopefully, you can do it again," Rick sounded confident in her abilities. He offered her a small smile, reaching for her elbow. The touch startled her, but she did not pull away. Hershel's eyes did not miss the gesture.

"We need a map," she directed this at the preacher. "Please," she amended.

Hershel looked at them for a long moment, clearly wrestling with some decision. "All right," he said at length. He went to a desk in the corner, rifling through paperwork. Unceremoniously, he seized a roll of paper, unfurling it across the wooden surface.

"Kings County," Hershel announced. "It's out of date since the war. Can't find a surveyor to come complete it. But it should be the basics."

Rick and Michonne came forward eagerly.

"Church grounds," Rick recounted. He tapped the page with a finger, his nails caked with blood.

Hershel nodded. "There are tunnels down there, but no one has been in them in years. We aren't sure where they lead."

Michonne leaned in, studying the map in front of her. "These were built at the turn of the century," she noted a date on the page. "Why haven't they been used?" she glanced up at Hershel.

"Rot," Hershel cleared his throat, answering nervously. "It was too damp and the smell—"

"Was something like the one right now, I'd reckon," Rick chuckled to himself.

Michonne spun the map, strategizing. Both men watched her. "These were meant to be catacombs," she announced.

"I know," Hershel's brows jumped in surprise. "You read? Who taught you?"

Michonne shot him a look, realizing her faux pas too late.

"Is that important?" It was Rick who brought the subject back around to the matter at hand. Michonne cast him a grateful look.

"Of course not," Hershel stammered. "I was just curious." He seemed ashamed.

Michonne refocused, putting aside her irritation. "The trouble is, we don't know where it spits out," she traced the page with her finger. "We could all get trapped down there."

Rick considered this. "We could go look," he tossed the idea out with the air of someone discussing dinner plans.

" _We_?" Hershel said in alarm.

"She and I," Rick gestured between himself and Michonne.

"You're going to take a…a woman. It's not proper—" Hershel argued.

"She won't take no for an answer," Rick grinned at Michonne again. She found herself smiling back. "And you need to stay and keep everyone calm."

"How are you going to get past the dead out there to even get to the door?" Hershel asked.

"We're going to need a distraction," Michonne announced. "I have an idea. Can you grab Daryl?"

-l-l-l-l-

"The minute it happens, run," Rick said.

"I know," she looked almost amused by his concern. "Rick, this isn't my first time outrunning danger."

"Fair enough," he conceded. "But humor me."

"I'll be fine. It's you I'm worried about, old man," she teased.

Rick's stomach clenched, not for the first time today. Perhaps it was all that time at war that had destroyed his sensibilities, but he was almost _enjoying_ himself. His children were miles away, his friends injured, he was surrounded by the dead and racists alike. There was something about being in her presence though, something about having her smile at him and trust him that transcended even the circumstances of the day.

"We do this quickly," he told her. They were running out of sunlight. The shadow of the church grew long in the late afternoon. Hershel had assured them that he would keep Tyreese and Sasha safe, but Rick much preferred to keep his thumb on men like Ed Peletier.

"The sooner we get this done, the sooner we get home," she agreed. "Your home," she amended, her cheeks darkening.

Rick nodded at her, giving her arm a squeeze. "Our home," he confirmed.

She smiled at him. Rick found himself grinning back.

"So, what is it I'm 'spossed to do?" Daryl interrupted. The teenager squinted outside, looking confused.

"How good of a shot are you?" Michonne asked him, gesturing to his crossbow.

"I'm great," he sounded confident for the first time that day.

"Perfect," Michonne pointed, bringing both men's attention to an outcropping of trees a few meters off. "See those birds? Those squirrels?"

Daryl nodded.

"Shoot them," Michonne instructed. "Injure, not kill."

Daryl looked at her in shock. "Ain't that kinda cruel?"

Both she and Rick shot him a disbelieving look. "Less so than lynching folks," Rick said, his anger thinly veiled.

"All right," Daryl moved quickly into place, suddenly eager to comply.

"Just try it out," Michonne refocused. "See what happens."

A low thrum accompanied by a whistle signaled Daryl's first shot. A bird fell from the tree with a squawk. The dead all turned toward it at once, hastening to the sounds of the animal.

"Another," Michonne instructed.

There as another whistle and a thump. The dead were moving in full force now, driven by hunger.

"Let's go," Michonne tugged at Rick's arm. He seized his hatchet.

"Keep 'em distracted," he told Daryl.

The teenager nodded. "Be quick," he cautioned.

Together, Rick and Michonne slunk out the back door. She moved lightly, a trait that never ceased to amaze him, as though she were dancing instead of walking. He did his best to keep up, rushing behind her, heading for the tombs, the heavy key ring in his hand. Michonne reached the door first, sword out, flattening herself against the wall. Quickly, Rick thrust the key in, turning it. The rusted lock let out a loud screech, echoing across the field.

They both froze, eyes wide. "Go!" Michonne hissed.

He pulled on the door, straining to yank the metal hinges back into motion. He got it open about a foot and Michonne dove inside, tugging him after her.

"Don't close it," she warned. "The sound might bring them."

"Can you see?" he asked her. It was pitch black in here, the humidity sweltering. Hershel was right about the smell. Everything was sharper in here, as though he could taste it.

"Just go slow," she instructed quietly. "Stay close to me."

Rick reached out, his fingertips just grazing the fabric of her dress. "Do you think they can smell? The dead?" he asked.

"Maybe," she moved them forward slowly, into the darkness. He could hear her breathing, steady and rhythmic. He wondered how many journeys she'd taken like this, shrouded in darkness, death lingering over her like a guillotine.

"The blood on your dress," he started. "Will it draw them?"

There was a short pause. "I hope not," she answered. "I think it's mostly their blood anyway."

They moved forward, step by step for what felt like an eternity. Finally, a faint light began to grow from far off. Michonne sped them up. Cautiously, they approached the exit.

"Let me," Rick shifted, putting Michonne behind him. He thought she'd protest, but she moved back instead, letting him pass.

"Careful," she cautioned.

Rick eased out, into the sun. About 400 meters off, the church was visible, the dead off in the distance.

"We can make it, he declared, moving so Michonne could see. "If we're quick."

Michonne nodded, a smile on her face. "Let's go," she said. "We will have to take them in groups."

Rick followed her, hurrying back down the tunnel, eager to return home. He was desperate to see his children, even as he worried about where to lead these people once they had freed them. He wondered if he could leave a few, if he could sleep at night knowing that he had.

"We'll figure something out, Rick," Michonne seemed to read his thoughts. She looked back at him, her dark eyes almost glowing in the low light.

"I know," he hazarded a smile at her.

They neared the end of the tunnel, coming back towards the metal doors. Michonne slipped out first, sword in front of her.

"C'mon," she called to him, already ready to run.

They set off at a jog. Rick's heart hammered. The dead were much closer than they had been before, obviously bored with the dead pigeons that Daryl had provided. The back door to the church wasn't far off. He could hear noises coming from it, raised voices, as though there was an argument. Panic seized him.

"Go!" he shouted at Michonne, his worst fears coming true. They both ran as fast as they could.

From the doorway, the face of Ed Peletier appeared, bruising already from Rick's fist. With a cold grin, he slammed the door shut. Michonne hit it, yanking at the handle. It wouldn't budge. The dead moved toward them, drawn by the sound, flocking by the dozen.

Rick kicked at the door, feeling the wood bend beneath his foot, his ankle screaming in protest. Ignoring it, he kicked again. Behind him, Michonne spun, sword out. He could hear the first arrivals dropping to the ground as she swung. Their moans were loud in his ears, but less so than the sounds going up behind the door. People were shouting, fighting. Rick reached for his hatchet, ready to cut the lock right out of the heavy oak door.

"Rick!" Michonne's panicked yell brought him spinning around. One of the dead was on him, his mouth agape, the stench threatening to level him.

He tried to lift his arm, but it was too late. He went down hard, the body on top of him, thoughts of his children entering his mind, Michonne's screams ringing in his ears.


	10. The Escape

**A/N: Thanks for all of the messages I've been getting about this. I appreciate all of your feedback. It's a delicate time period to write about, but I'm hoping I'm doing it some justice.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _"Mama!" Michonne lost all semblance of self-preservation, rushing across the field towards the woman she loved more than anyone in this world._

 _Her screams were silenced by the roar of battle, the clash of union and rebel soldiers, the sounds of cannons. She'd lost her hat somewhere and her hair was streaming behind her as she ran, fighting her way through. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized her cover was blown, that people could see her now, see her for a woman. It didn't matter._

 _Her mama looked up at her, smiling serenely as she met her eyes across the carnage of the battlefield. Michonne could make out her face, so much like her own, her lips as she shaped words that Michonne could not hear but knew by heart._

 _"I love you," it echoed across the field towards her as the horse reared up in pain, as her mother crumpled beneath it._

 _There, in the middle of it all, Michonne had screamed, her rage and pain terrible. Enemies fell at her sword, crumpling by the dozens, but none of it brought her mama back._

"Rick!" his name ripped from her throat, the sound raw and harsh. The dead surged around her, the stench overpowering, their rotting bodies jostling hers. She could scarcely feel them; scarcely hear the sounds of the heavy oak door being thrown open, the panicked shouts. She swung wildly, arching her sword over and over until her arms felt likely to simply fall limp, fighting her way towards the man who had saved her life.

Five seconds stretched into an eternity as she reached him, flipping her blade like a surgeon, severing the head from the shoulders of the dead walker that had attacked him. There was an explosion of gore, a sickening rattle, and then Rick was visible to her, eyes closed, body convulsing, his hatchet caught between the ribs of his attacker.

She shoved the remains off of him, crying out to God, pleading for him. Her thoughts raced to the two children in his home, already without a mother.

"Rick!" she yelled in his face, scared to touch him. Fumbling, she shoved aside puddles of blood to reach for his throat. She thought it was a trick of her mind, but there it was, the faint thrum of his pulse beneath her fingers. She let out a dry, anguished sob, relief flooding her.

Rick sputtered beneath her, attempting to clear the fluids from his face. Michonne bunched her skirt in her hands, wiping away at him.

"Hold still," she instructed. After a few passes, she could see him, his blue eyes blinking open at her.

"Michonne," he looked startled by her presence. His eyes fell to the dead, still around them. He gripped for his hatchet, trying to sit up and shove her behind him. She nearly fell, tugging at his shirt to steady herself. All the while, the dead circled them, heading for the church walls, but none attacked. She sat frozen, still atop him, heart hammering.

"What…" Rick voiced the shock she felt, looking wildly around.

Michonne glanced down at herself, then Rick. They were covered in what remained of the dead, nearly drenched. The pieces clicked into place.

"We're disguised," she gestured to their outfits. She was no stranger to the concept. Freedom runs required an ingenuity that put spies to shame. "They must not be able to smell us, or tell we're alive…" she trailed off, moving cautiously to stand. Rick hurriedly rose to his feet alongside her, still trying to shield her. "They only attack the living," she said, sword up. "We must not seem like the living to them now."

Rick glanced around, rightfully skeptical. He seized her around the waist, dragging her back towards the door. The dead did not make a way for them, but neither were they attacked. They simply bounced around them, like salmon swimming upstream.

"Camouflage," Rick announced, in awe.

"I think so," Michonne laughed, endorphins filling her so quickly that she nearly collapsed. Rick was alive. They had not perished. He looked at her, confused, unsure what to make of her. She wasn't quite sure what to make of herself.

"Michonne," he ventured, peering at her, his eyes startlingly clear against his blood-streaked face. "Are you all right?"

"Are you?" her laughter transformed into a sob, the sound mortifying her. A few of the dead turned towards it. Rick hastened to comfort her.

"I am," he nodded, wrapping his arm around her waist again, steadying her.

"Rick! Michonne!" Daryl was in the doorway, now open, yelling for them. An arrow whizzed past, leveling one of the walkers that got too close.

Rick moved them quickly, pushing Michonne ahead of him into safety. "What happened?" his voice was murderous, even as he lowered her to the ground and went back to force the door closed. Michonne took a moment to look around. The signs of a scuffle were everywhere. Chairs were overturned, linens tugged from the windows and sullied beneath dirty feet. Worst of all, she saw several pools of blood, including one that streaked off, as though someone had been dragged.

"Ed and his posse of idiots," Daryl growled as well. "They came for Hershel first, nearly knocked him out cold. He had the good sense to scream so I came running. It was 5 or 6 of 'em causing trouble." Daryl shook his head. "One of em, he got bit or something, but got away. Tyreese, the big guy, he's got 'em. But we need to get in there." He was hurrying already for the main hall. Michonne paused, processing. She wasn't sure that she had much more strength left in her. She felt like laying down, letting someone else handle it for a change.

Rick stayed a few steps behind Daryl. He paused to look to her. "You coming?" he asked.

"Yes," Michonne stood up, still shaky. Rick helped her up. She wanted nothing more in that moment than to let him carry her, to grab him and escape, back to the farm, back to his children, back where things had been good, if only for a moment.

"It's going to be ok," he soothed. He stared, that intense gaze burning into her, like he had a book full of things in his head that he wanted to say but couldn't. He took her hand instead, lacing his fingers with hers and squeezing. The gesture anchored her to reality. "What are we going to do about this?" he asked her, hatchet in his other hand.

"We're getting out," Michonne said, her voice oddly calm, even to herself, "with the people who want to cooperate."

"Good," something in Rick's eyes shifted. "Daryl, you grab Tyreese, Sasha, Hershel and his girls. Wait for us in the backroom."

Daryl paused at that. "What are you going to do?"

Rick looked at Michonne expectantly. Michonne lifted her sword. "We're going to leave," she said.

-l-l-l-l-

Michonne was shaken up. Rick knew this, saw the fear on her face when she looked at him. She was exhausted, drained, and he couldn't blame her. He didn't have much left either. Seeing her like this, normally so strong but now so small, it did something to him, awakened something. He wanted to hold her right then, to assure her that he was fine, that _they_ were fine, that he would take care of it all. There would be time for that later. First, he needed to get them both out.

"Ed!" his voice ricocheted off the church walls, echoing. The clergy jumped, fear written plain as day on their faces.

The man in question shook, the smug expression vanished. Tyreese had done a number on him, Rick saw with a certain satisfaction. He was bleeding, his round face even redder and more swollen than usual. A few other men were gathered up around him. One of them was dripping blood all over the tile beneath, holding his arm. He looked worse for the wear than the whole bunch put together. Rick realized with a start that Sasha and Maggie had the whole group at gunpoint. The younger girl's hands were shaking a bit, but her chin was high, her mouth set in a stubborn tilt. Nearby, her sister, Beth, was huddled against their father. Hershel was bleeding, disheveled.

"I'm sorry, Rick," he muttered as Rick past him. Rick touched his arm reassuringly, leaving a crimson stain.

"Ed Peletier," he repeated. "You and me already talked about this." Rick had half a mind to open those church doors right now.

Tyreese, perhaps noticing the look in Rick's eye, released the captive at his feet. "He's not going anywhere," he assured Rick in a low voice. Rick gave him a grateful nod.

"You were going to lock us out?" Rick's question was low, his tone laced with poison. He could feel Michonne at his back, could see the terrified expressions of the rest of the room. He knew he looked like death, blood soaked and covered in the remains of the walkers. "You were going to kill me and this woman here?" Rick straightened up, catching Michonne's eye. She was impassive, her sword still brandished.

Ed shivered. "You were gonna bring those things down on us. You and her," Ed still spat the word, glowering at Michonne. Rick's anger flared even hotter.

"Here's what's going to happen," Rick announced, turning to the group. All eyes landed on him at once. "Those of you who fell in line, you're leaving with us," he fixed his gaze on a small group. "The rest of you, you're fending for yourselves."

"You can't leave us," Ed sputtered. "My wife, she's pregnant."

Rick laughed, the hypocrisy of it all amusing him. "Don't worry about your wife, Ed." Rick began to walk away, gesturing for Maggie, Sasha and the rest to follow him. "She's coming with us."

"Now wait," the protests came hot and fast now, from both Ed and his compatriots. They fell on deaf ears. Michonne led the chosen few towards the back, hastening them into the small back room. Ed's wife didn't even spare him a glance as she all but ran behind Michonne, crying quietly. Rick watched them leave before stepping into the doorway himself.

"You're so smart?" he turned back to Ed, for the last time. "Then you find your way out of here."

With that, Rick closed the door, locking it tight.

"I would have thrown his ass right outside," Daryl griped. Beside him, Tyreese nodded in agreement.

"He ain't worth having the blood on my hands," Rick wiped his palms on his pants. He caught Michonne's eye, needing to see her reaction. She smiled just the slightest at him.

"What now?" the question came from Sasha. She'd perked up considerably since he had seen her last, looking right at home with that rifle in her hands. "Do we fight our way out?"

"I can fight," Maggie announced, looking almost eager.

"We ain't fighting," Rick hastened to assure them. "If we do this right, I don't think we'll need to. Tyreese," he turned to his new friend, "I need you to help me open that door. Daryl," Rick pointed, "Once it's open, you shoot the closest of those walkers, and you drag him in here. Maggie, Beth, grab those linens. Everybody needs one. Cut a hole in the top, like those ponchos they wear out west."

If people were confused by his instructions, they didn't show it, instead springing into action. In minutes, Daryl had secure, not one, but two of the dead. The smell immediately saturated the room they were in. The pregnant woman covered her face, looking sick, but her eyes stayed on the situation.

"What's your name?" Rick asked her.

"Carol," she responded, her voice shaking.

"Carol, you and Beth are going to take these here," Rick pointed, "and make us some camouflage."

"How?" Beth spoke up.

In answer, Rick brought his hatchet down, opening the walkers up like bags of seed. Maggie gagged, Tyreese took a step back, but Hershel was incensed.

"Desecrating the dead!" he protested, his eyes wide.

"The dead are walking again, Hershel," Rick had no more time for his friend's hesitancy. "The rules are different. You want to live, you follow our lead." He looked at Michonne again. She was already handing out the linens.

"Ready?" she asked, dragging people forward. "The quicker we do this, the quicker it's done."

-l-l-l-l-

"Just hold still," his voice was gentle, as though he hadn't burned with red-hot rage just moments before.

Michonne raised her hands above her head, letting Rick slip the linen poncho over her. He tugged her locs beneath it, and then bent to his task, smothering the putrid remains all over her.

"Can't be too careful," he smiled at her like he was asking her to wear a jacket outside when it was raining, not preparing her to flee for her life.

"They're all ready to go?" she asked quietly. She glanced at the group. They were standing by the backdoor, in various states of nervousness. Of them, Sasha, Tyreese, and surprisingly the preacher's eldest daughter looked the most composed. Daryl had barely flinched through the whole process, and was now pacing, eager to get it on with.

"As ready as they're going to be," Rick chuckled once. "Are you ok?" he asked her, tilting his head.

"I am," she assured him. "When we get home though, I'm jumping in the biggest tub you have."

He laughed outright then. "You can go first," he promised her. "We've got an hour or two left of light. We need to get moving."

As though the universe sensed their predicament and wanted to provide motivation, a ruckus suddenly exploded from beyond the door, back from the main hall of the church. The men inside began to scream, hollering to high heaven.

Michonne looked quickly to the door, her eyes finding Carol immediately. The woman swallowed, gripping her baby bump from beneath her poncho, but did not protest.

"Let's go," Rick tore his eyes from the door, heading instead to the oak one at the back. Tyreese quickly stepped in to help him move it. "Everyone stay close. Stay quiet. Once we get to the end of the tunnel, we run until we hit the forest."

Without another word, he led them all outside. Michonne exited last, making sure that no one was left behind. She paused at the door, curiosity calling her back. Cursing under her breath, she stole back to the other door, dropping to her knees to look through the skeleton key lock. What she saw nearly turned her stomach.

Gasping, she bounded up, turning and running for the group at a flat sprint. The dead were distracted by the sounds inside the church, redoubling their efforts to get inside. Michonne dipped past them unnoticed. She reached them in record time, rushing right towards Rick. He was waiting for her.

"What happened?" he asked, worried.

She squeezed past him, into the tunnels. "I promise I'll tell you," she was still shaking. "But can we go home?" She needed this day to end.

He looked as though he wanted to protest, but accepted this. With a mighty tug, he slammed the gate behind them shut.

Rick scarcely left her side as they left the church behind them, rushing from the tunnel and into the forest. The silence was deafening as they made their way to the farm two by two. At some point, he reached for her arm, holding onto her elbow as a man would for a lady taking a stroll in the park.

"Southern manners?" she chanced asking a question, her voice breaking the quiet for the first time in an hour.

He smiled, his lips just tilting up. "Something like that," he said. "I never thanked you for saving me."

"No need," she assured him. "We're square now."

Rick digested this, his face creasing in sudden worry. "I hope that don't mean you're going to run off now that we're even."

That the idea of her leaving distressed him startled her. "Rick," she reached for him as well, squeezing his arm. "I'm not going anywhere."

Though he tried to hide it, a smile played on his lips for the rest of their walk home. It grew wider when his house came into view. He jumped the fence, pausing only to help the ladies over, before he took the rest of the distance at a flat sprint. Michonne watched as the door to his house flew open, watched as Carl let out an impassioned cry, as Rick tossed his poncho away, falling to his knees at the sight of his son. She could hear Judith sobbing, calling out for her father. Glenn appeared as well, bruised, but alive. He spotted her.

"Michonne!" he didn't bother with the stairs, instead just leaping the barrier. Michonne ran at him.

"You're alive," he didn't seem to care that she was covered in filth, but hugged her tightly.

"So are you," she found herself sobbing, the emotion finally breaking free.

"Theodore, Morgan, Duane, we all made it." Glenn pulled back, inspecting her. Michonne fumbled with the poncho, pulling herself free. "We looked for you," he looked so distressed. "But the town, no one was alive. We had to get to the kids."

Michonne silenced him with another hug. "You did the right thing," she turned, directing his line of sight to where Rick had collapsed, holding onto his children like a lifeline.

Glenn watched them, then turned back to her, his clever eyes unmoving from her face. "We're staying here, aren't we?" he asked.

She met his eyes, ready to plead if necessary. "We need a group," she told him. "We can't keep running."

Glenn grinned. "Good. I'm tired," he exhaled shakily, seeming to notice the rest of the group for the first time. They were standing in a huddle, looking uncertain.

"Come meet the rest," Michonne told him. She turned to look back one last time. Rick was staring back at her.

She smiled, happy to be home.

-l-l-l-l-

It took the better part of three hours to get the whole household settled. Maggie and Beth had taken a room with Carol; Tyreese agreed to join Morgan, Glenn, Daryl, and Duane in one room, and Sasha, at her brother's encouragement, had decided to stay with Michonne. Rick was to spend the night with his children. First though, he had to pry them away from their new favorite person.

She was seated on the floor in the living room, drying her hair in front of the fire. Though most of the house had retired, utterly exhausted, Carl and Judith had refused to move from her side. Rick paused in the doorway, watching as she spoke quietly with the two of them. Judith was asleep in her lap, arms wrapped around her waist. Carl was leaning against her leg, struggling to stay awake.

She looked like their mother. The realization startled him a bit. He'd been prepared to go through this world alone, in no hurry to open his home, or his heart, to another woman. In the world before this, Michonne would not have even been an option.

But this was a new world.

She noticed him at last. "Sorry I stole your children," she apologized quietly, looking almost bashful.

Rick hushed her, bending over to lift his daughter into his arms, helping Carl off the ground. "There's nothing to be sorry about," he assured her. He wanted to kiss her head, the way he had with Lori, take her upstairs with him. He calmed himself. They had more ground to cover in this new thing, whatever it was. He would not rush it and ruin it prematurely.

"I have to tell you what I saw," she sounded regretful. "I wish I could wait, but-"

"Hush," he instructed, hoping it came off as kindly as he meant it. "I'm going to put them down, then I'll be back."

"All right," she settled back down, leaning in towards the fire. "I'll be here."

The words were enough to make Rick look forward to it, just a little bit.


	11. Distracted

**A/N: Thanks as always for the response to the story! A few people asked about my personal project. Feel free to find me on Tumblr ( lovedmoviesb) and check it out!**

 **I hope you all enjoy this next one**

* * *

"What do you think, Michonne?"

The question startled her out of her reverie. She blinked at Glenn, feeling foolish. The group, sans Carol, Beth, and the children, were seated in Rick's drawing room, clustered together.

"I think…it is getting crowded," she fumbled, attempting to pick up the conversation from where she was last paying attention.

"My point exactly," if Glenn noticed that she was disengaged, he did not mention it. "It's going to be winter soon, and we can't all stay piled on top of each other." He'd mentioned privately to Michonne a day or so before that he was losing his mind stuck together like sardines in a tin can. Michonne empathized, though the master bedroom proved to be more space than she had ever called her own before, even with Sasha there.

"I don't mind it," Rick spoke up. "You're all welcome." He had taken the full house in good stride, acting as though it were every day that nearly a dozen strangers began living with him.

"We know," Morgan said kindly. "But close quarters ain't always a good thing. Causes disagreements," he imparted sagely. Theodore and Daryl had already gotten into it, or rather, Theodore had nearly strangled Daryl on sight a few days back.

"I wouldn't mind not sleeping on top of each other," Theodore added. The swelling had started to go down in his face and his spirits were high once again.

"Rick, you have how many acres?" Glenn asked.

"Plenty," Rick chuckled lowly. "I don't think the law men are going to come around if we add a few more."

There was light laughter at that, primarily from Morgan, Theodore, Tyreese, Glenn, and Sasha. This world was crawling with the walking dead, but for a group of them, they had never been freer. Sasha and Tyreese had taken to it like ducks to water, delighted to wake up every day on their own time, choose their own work.

"There's tools at our farm," Maggie piped up. "We can take a wagon, haul some stuff over. No need for it to go to waste."

"I don't want you going alone," Hershel was quick to protest. "Those…things are everywhere these days."

"We need to risk it," Morgan argued. "We need space, supplies, and food. Or this winter will kill us before the dead do."

A murmur went up in the group as they began weighing the pros and cons. Michonne found her mind wandering again. She knew she should be more engaged in the planning, and she wanted to be. It had not stopped her increasing distraction. The source of her diversion was sitting to her right, his leg just brushing hers in their tight circle of chairs, calmly absorbing everyone's arguments.

 _"He turned, Rick," her stomach squirmed just to think of it. She'd seen a man attack his friends, chewing at them like a feral animal. "I don't know how, but he was one of them. He was biting everybody…" she trailed off. She had no love for the men who had died, but the implications were terrifying._

 _Rick's eyes widened, but he did not question her story. "Daryl said one of them bit someone. It must work like rabies. If they bite you, or scratch you maybe—"_

 _"You become like them," she finished his sentence for him. A shiver ran through her, though they were seated in front of the fire. Rick noticed. Tentatively, he moved towards her, sliding across the rug until he came to her side._

 _"We'll strengthen the fences," he told her. "Make sure no one, or nothing gets in."_

 _"Then what?" she asked, acutely aware of his every move. She found herself studying his face, the hard line of his jaw, dusted in that salt and pepper beard, his straight nose, the curl of his hair. Her heart began to flutter, her mind racing. She never had much time for men, for the notion of settling down, not when there were so many to save, and certainly, never for a white man before. Still… he was looking back at her, something altogether foreign and familiar in his eyes, not quite lust, but perhaps adoration._

 _"Then, we'll live," he told her simply. He reached for her hand, lifting it in his own. She could count the callouses on his palm by touch, feel the whorls of his fingers beneath hers. She remembered the sensation of his lips on her skin, only hours ago._

 _"Rick," her breath stuttered, then ceased completely as he moved his mouth towards her._

"I don't think we have a choice," Rick announced in that low rumble of his. "We're going to need things, Morgan is right. We ain't seen the living in over a week now, but the dead…" he trailed off. There was no need to repeat how they'd found dozens of them at his fence over the last few days, how they had become nearly as frequently seen as rabbits.

He looked to her, as he often did, as though he wanted her opinion. "You're right," she sided with him immediately. "On top of space, we're going to need food, clothing…" she ticked the list off on her fingers. "But no one should go alone," she added. Hershel looked gratified by this. The old man still perplexed her. He was not adjusting, not the way she knew Rick hoped he would. Michonne could not say she was surprised. It was hard to accept change when you once had sat atop the pecking order. Still, Rick cared about him, so she kept her reservations mainly to herself.

"I'm a fair hunter," Sasha announced. "And a good shot."

"I can help with that too," Daryl spoke up. He was largely silent around the house, keeping to the corners, skittish. Michonne wasn't sure if it was shame, fear, or something else.

"I'll go with you," Theodore's voice made it clear that there would be no argument. Michonne hid her smile. He'd been surprisingly understanding of having Daryl around, all things considered, but he hadn't taken his eye of him either.

"I can go to the house," Maggie said. "But I'll need some help."

"Maggie—" Hershel tried to protest.

"Daddy, hush," Maggie said fondly. "I'll be quick. I know what to grab."

"I'll come," Glenn volunteered.

"And I," Morgan finished.

"The rest of us will keep working on the fences. I'm thinking we might need to dig a trench of some kind, where they keep popping up," Rick looked away in the distance, through the front window.

"We should start now," Michonne suggested, eager to be working, to distract herself. "Everyone be careful. Remember not to get bitten."

With a nod, the group dispersed, breaking off into smaller units. Rick stood up, conversing lowly with Glenn and Tyreese. He shot her a look she was familiar with, his unspoken promise to return to her, before following the two men from the room. Michonne was left sitting, Hershel just a foot from her. The older man's face had been creased in nonstop worry ever since his arrival to the farm.

"I'll get Beth and Carol to mind the children," he told her, startling her. Hershel only ever spoke to her with Rick beside her. "I think we should till some earth, get ready to plant. There's food we need to grow, if we're going to make this work."

It was a step, though a small one. Michonne appreciated it.

"I'm sure Rick wouldn't mind," she said, venturing a smile.

"The children," he began, nervously. "They're all quite fond of you. Even Beth. She lost her mama too, you know."

Michonne did know, though she wouldn't have considered Beth a child. By the time she was that age, she had already led her first group to freedom. Daryl was not but a year or so older, and he was already functioning independently. Harsh realities meant short childhoods.

"She's a good girl," Michonne said. In truth, she was not sure Beth was cut out for this world, nor her father. They would need to toughen up and quick.

"Rick," Hershel continued. "He's very fond of you also."

Michonne stiffened. "We saved each other's lives," she said, her hackles instantly rising.

"His wife, you know, was a lovely little lady. He loved her to distraction," Hershel recounted.

Michonne swallowed a knot in her throat. "I'm sure he did."

"Has he mentioned her?" Hershel asked.

"Once or twice," Michonne said tersely. Rick had shown no signs of willingness to speak of his late wife with her since their conversation that night. She hadn't pressed him.

"Tragic, that she spent so much time away from her husband just to die in childbirth," Hershel seemed weary again. "I thought the stress of it would kill him."

"Rick's strong," Michonne bit out, wanting suddenly to be anywhere but here. She stood up, adjusting her clothing, picking up her sword from beside her chair. "I better go help," she announced, already walking off.

She passed through the kitchen, pausing only to offer Judith a hug before making her way outside. Carl followed her.

"Can I help?" he asked eagerly, bouncing along beside her with all the enthusiasm of a puppy.

Her spirits lifted some at the sight of him. "Did you ask your father?" she asked him, offering him a smile.

"He doesn't mind me being with you," Carl informed her. "You're the only one he doesn't tell me to be careful with."

Michonne digested this. It was no secret that Rick trusted her with his children. Sasha had even remarked on it, asking her whether she worked for the Grimes family before this all began. The news that Michonne had been the liberator that so many had heard of had endeared the girl to her immediately. All suspicion Sasha and Tyreese may have harbored for Rick had disappeared with the revelation. "You don't want to help Mr. Greene?" she asked.

Carl made a face. "The preacher is always trying to lecture me," he griped. "Don't tell dad I said that." He amended quickly, looking about nervously. His father was off in the distance, hitching up a wagon with Morgan.

Michonne reached for Carl, ruffling him atop his large hat. "I think he tries to do the same to me," she winked. "I won't tell if you don't." The two shared a laugh.

"Promise," Carl beamed. "Can you give me fighting lessons again? If you have time, I mean?" he asked eagerly.

"I think we can make time," she agreed, happily accepting his hand.

"Can Duane come?" Carl asked.

"Sure," Michonne laughed, feeling better already.

-l-l-l-l-

"Be careful out there," Rick cautioned. "We'll mind Duane."

Morgan nodded, looking unbothered. "Duane tells me that Michonne's been giving him lessons," he said.

"Really?" Rick knew that all three children had no qualms about monopolizing Michonne's time. Truth be told, he was a bit envious.

"Fighting," Morgan said simply. "It's helping him. He ain't afraid like he used to be."

Rick processed this. "That's a good thing." Duane had been skittish as a doe after the incident, and Rick couldn't blame him. The boy dodged Daryl like he was the plague.

"Duane says Carl's taking them too," Morgan told him, raising a brow.

 _This_ was news. Rick paused, glancing out towards the house. Carl was trailing after Michonne, his new favorite pastime. "He should learn," Rick decided, resigning to talk to Michonne about it later. "Can't keep him from it any longer."

Morgan nodded, pleased. "She's taken a shine to your children," he observed.

Rick chuckled, "The feeling's mutual."

"And with you?" Morgan leaned on his staff, pausing in their work. "Is the feeling mutual?" Rick blushed, inwardly cursing this perceptive friend of his. Morgan began to laugh immediately. "We all know, you know," he chuckled.

"What is it that ya'll think you know?" Rick asked, his skin reddening.

"You should stop staring at her, if you're trying to keep it a secret," Morgan grinned.

Rick laughed aloud, "Nothing's a secret…but nothing is happening either. Not yet."

"You courtin' her?" Morgan asked, impressed.

"Trying to," Rick admitted. "Can't find much time to ourselves." It was probably a good thing, all things considered. Rick wasn't sure he had the self-control to not jump the gun.

 _"Rick…" his name left her lips on a sigh, the sound shooting through him like a red hot poker. Her hand felt delicate in his, surprisingly soft for a woman who had led such a hard life. He studied the skin, dark, nearly glowing in the light of the fire, smooth like polished bronze._

 _Her breath hitched, a motion he didn't miss. He paused to look at her, unsure whether he was scaring her. The look in her eyes made him sure that it wasn't fear. Slowly, he moved towards her, giving her time to pull back, to tell him to stop._

 _She didn't say anything._

 _His lips brushed hers softly, just a gentle press. He feared anything else would be his undoing. Never before had a person had such an effect on him. Even when he had mooned after Lori as a boy, he had never felt such a pull towards another._

 _"You should get some rest," he told her, standing, lifting her from the floor along with him. He'd carry her all the way up the stairs if she asked him too._

 _She remained silent, looking at him through her long lashes, still short of breath._

"If I had to guess, she likes you," Morgan observed.

"What makes you say that?" Rick asked curiously.

"She ain't sliced you in half yet," Morgan laughed again. "And you aren't the only one staring, looking like there's stars in your eyes."

Rick couldn't contain his grin at that, even as Morgan dissolved into guffaws. He and Michonne hadn't had any time alone since that night. He feared that he might have taken advantage of her in some way with that kiss, that she'd been too afraid to tell him "no".

"You think so?" he asked Morgan.

Morgan shook his head, fixing Rick with a serious expression. "You sure about this, Rick? Just cause the world changed doesn't mean people did. She don't deserve a man who's unsure."

"I'm sure," Rick affirmed. He'd spent nearly every second of his free time asking himself the same thing. After Lori, he'd been in no hurry whatsoever to pursue a romance, though a few women had made their intentions known. They all seemed the same to him, southern belles with no real scruples, fragile, dainty, and flighty.

"If you're just looking for a bed warmer—" Morgan began.

Rick cut him off immediately. "I ain't." He hadn't been looking for anything when she stumbled to his gate weeks ago, but it seemed that he had found a partner.

Morgan nodded again, looking pleased. "Then court her right, Rick," he said with a nod. He shook his friend's hand before heading for the wagon where Glenn and Maggie were waiting.

Rick's thoughts raced as Morgan walked off, a plan taking shape. "Do me a favor?" he called after his friend.

Morgan paused. "What do you need?" he called back to him.

Rick grinned.

-l-l-l-l-

"Good," Michonne complimented. From her place on her hip, Judith watched, fascinated, her arms hanging loosely around Michonne's neck. They were stationed behind the barn, out in a clearing, the sun setting behind them. Michonne observed her students, nodding her approval. Duane and Carl were brandishing sticks as though they were swords, circling each other with wide eyes. "Don't watch your feet," she corrected both boys. "Eyes on your opponent. Anticipate his moves."

Duane launched forward, leveling Carl with his stick. Carl hit the ground but was up in a flash, brandishing his weapon in front of him. He glanced at Michonne out of the corner of his eye. Michonne gave him a small nod.

"Good," she smiled at both boys. "Sometimes it's not about attacking right away. Find a weak point."

The boys went down in a pile as they both rushed for each other at once, the exercise quickly dissolving into a wrestling match. Michonne allowed them to scrap lightly, listening to the sounds of their laughter. Judith scrambled to get down, wanting to join in. She released the girl, watching as she picked up a stick and hurried to defend her brother.

By Michonne's side, Beth was standing, hands clasped, looking one part frightened and one part thrilled. Michonne had half a mind to put the girl in a match. It would do her some good. Carol was there as well, eyes wide, still silent. The woman was like a mouse in some ways, skittish and quiet, her hair graying prematurely. Still, there was something in her eyes that hinted at a fire, a will to live.

"Will you teach me?" the expectant mother asked suddenly. Michonne turned to her in surprise.

"There's not much you should do, with a baby on the way," Michonne would not be responsible for hurting an unborn child.

"All the more reason to learn," Carol protested, steeling her resolve.

Michonne considered this. It was Carl though, who offered a solution. "Ask my dad to teach you to shoot," he suggested, lowering his stick. Judith smacked at his legs playfully. He caught her little hands.

"Maybe you should," Michonne looked to Carol. "And once the baby comes, I'd be happy to teach you."

Carol's face bent into something almost resembling a smile. "Then I'll ask Rick," she said.

"Ask me what?" Rick appeared from around the corner. He was covered in dirt, his face streaked with sweat, the fabric of his clothing clinging to him. Michonne did her best to avert her eyes.

"To teach me to shoot," Carol spoke up for herself.

Rick raised a brow. "That ain't a bad idea. You should learn too, Beth," he told the girl.

Beth nodded, blushing. Rick turned his attention to the children. "I want you all to take the ladies home," he told them. "Get dinner started. I need to talk to Miss Michonne."

With a nod, they scampered, Beth and Carol in tow. Michonne felt nervousness wreck through her. She hadn't been alone with Rick, not really, in a week. Now he caught her teaching his children to fight.

"Did you need something?" she asked, glad that she managed to sound calm.

Rick smiled at her. Her pulse jumped. "I just wanted to talk to you, is all," he told her. He ran a hand through his beard. "We haven't really talked since…" he flushed a bit beneath the dirt. "I just wanted to make sure that you're all right, that I didn't overstep."

"You didn't," she couldn't seem to meet his eyes.

He exhaled, brightening. "I didn't mean to go so many days without asking, it's just been hectic," he apologized. "I've been thinking about it though," he admitted.

Michonne's face began to heat up. "I have too," she said. Her stomach was doing a funny sort of dance, like she'd swallowed something that didn't agree with her.

He took a step toward her again, almost cautious. "Michonne, I know this ain't exactly the most romantic of settings, and I know a widower with two kids ain't the most eligible bachelor, but…" he paused, reaching for her hand. "I want to court you, the best I can in a world like this."

It was as though someone punched her in the gut. Adrenaline surged through her, even as tears sprung to her eyes. He spotted them, misunderstanding their meaning.

"Michonne," he dropped her hand. "I didn't mean to upset you. I—"

She cut him off, throwing her arms around his shoulders and silencing him with a kiss.


	12. Secrets

**A/N: Thank you again! Some of the kindest feedback I've ever received is being left in the reviews for this story. I appreciate you all.**

 **I hope you enjoy**

* * *

Rick's legs nearly went out from under him as his knees buckled from sheer surprise. Michonne kissed with enthusiasm, with none of the tentativeness he would have supposed. Her arms were tight around his neck, her body pressed flush against his. For a moment, he considered lifting her up, turning them around behind the shelter of the barn and reciprocating her fervor. It had been years since he felt even a shadow of the passion he was feeling now, years since he'd held a woman in his arms like this. His body seemed to demand that he pull her closer, show her exactly how badly he wanted her to be his. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the shred of chivalry that hadn't disappeared at the first touch of her lips spoke up. With difficulty, he exercised restraint.

"Michonne," he managed to mutter against her mouth, leaning back just the slightest from her. Perhaps she had a sudden realization of her lack decorum, because she took a step backwards, dropping her arms to her side.

"I'm sorry," she shook just slightly, her eyes downcast. "I didn't mean to—"

He took her hands, tugging her closer to him once more. One at a time, he raised them, kissing them softly. She shivered again, drawing her eyes up to him. "Come here," he suggested, cupping her chin and pulling her face back to his. Her lips were soft, pliant beneath his. She began to relax against him, slumping forward in his embrace. He deepened their kiss, sucking lightly at her, relishing in the shuddering gasp that escaped her. He smoothed one hand down her back, mapping the muscle hidden beneath her shirt, settling around her waist, right above the flare of her hips. His other hand found the thick cords of her hair, holding her tightly to him.

-l-l-l-l-

This man could _kiss_. It was the only thought that filled her head as Rick slowly dismantled all of her self-control. She'd been kissed before, years ago, when she was still been barely more than a child. The boy who did the kissing, Michael, had fallen prey to the harsh realities of the world they lived in, disappearing one night down the river. It solidified her will to save as many of her people as possible. He had kissed with raw, hot passion, open-mouthed and needy, like the world was coming to an end. Rick kissed her like they had all the time in the world, leisurely, as though they were the only two left. Rick kissed like this was just the beginning, and not the end. Rick's kiss felt like a promise.

Her mind was spinning, her body flushed. She was dizzy, breathless, spiraling. She wanted more, wanted to be closer to him, even as her brain screamed at her to disengage, to think this through. She had heard stories, she knew the tales from women like her, of interracial dalliances both cruel and kind. At times, they led to children, at times suffering, and sometimes, even love. Never once though had she heard of one ending happily.

She pulled back, letting the cool autumn air swirl between their heated bodies. Rick's hands were still on her, one at her hip, the other in her hair, massaging gently. It was a comforting feeling, one she realized she could quickly get used to. He leaned his forehead against hers, exhaling shakily.

"I have to go finish up some chores," his voice was a low whisper, almost regretful. "But I'd like to take a walk with you tonight, if you'd be obliged."

"I would," her heart began to pound at just the thought.

He smiled, releasing her again to grasp her hands once more. He kissed the backs, lingering just a moment too long. "Then I'll see you tonight," Rick said.

Michonne walked back to the house on shaky legs, the his touch echoing on her body, wondering if she could make it to this evening without combusting.

-l-l-l-l-

Rick thought about Michonne as he fed and watered the animals before locking them in the barn. It had taken all the self-control he possessed to not chase her back to the house. The memory of her walking away, hips swiveling even in trousers, sustained him long after she disappeared. He could picture her in his mind's eye, Judith by her side, Carl at the kitchen table, laughing at her jokes instead of finishing up his lessons.

Michonne had brought warmth and life back to his home, even as death swirled around them. He had tried, after the war, after Lori's death, to carve out some semblance of normality for his children. Every day was like waking up and fighting another battle, one to keep a smile on his face when his heart seemed consumed by grief and guilt. Now, here was a God-given opportunity for another chance at happiness, a real one. He would not repeat his mistakes.

Michonne, beautiful, warrior, intelligent Michonne. She was the kind of woman he once thought Lori was, strong in moral character, as lovely as she was fierce, nurturing, kind. Perhaps Lori _had_ been that once, just as he had been her savior for a time. They had grand ambitions, idealistic views of one another, expectations that could not have possible been met.

He would tell Michonne tonight, Rick decided. She would need to know the whole truth. Something told him that she would understand, that she might be the only person in Kings County who would not shame him. She was a soldier too, with a past just as troubled as his. Perhaps, if he opened up to her, she would reciprocate.

Morgan arrived in the wagon just as Rick was finishing. He almost didn't see them at first, so consumed was he with his thoughts. He couldn't think of the last time that he had whistled while working, but now the songs seemed to flow out of him.

"You're smiling awful big for a man who just worked all day," Morgan observed when he arrived. His own face mirrored Rick's grin. "Can't wait to show you what we've got."

"It went well?" Rick set about untethering the horses. From the wagon, Glenn and Maggie emerged. The young man helped the young woman down, reaching for her hand. There would have been nothing unusual about the gesture, save for the blush that colored Maggie's cheeks, and the fact that the two were pointedly avoiding eye contact. Rick glanced at his friend questioningly.

Morgan cocked an eyebrow back, a promise to divulge what he knew at a later time. "It went very well," he said out loud. "Glenn's got a talent for getting us out of trouble."

Glenn flushed at the praise, clearing his throat. "We avoided a few walkers," he said. "They got most of the animals on the property, but we took care of them pretty quickly. Maggie and I, we found some tools in the barn, some seeds too." He glanced at the girl in question. She flushed even deeper.

Rick kept his questions to himself, choosing instead to simply nod. "Any chance you found some wood working tools?" he kept strictly to business, fighting to keep the amusement off his face.

"We did," Morgan answered when it became clear that neither Glenn nor Maggie were in any mood to speak. In fact, Maggie had seized a basket of food and was already attempting to move off. Glenn tried to assist her, but she waved him off, taking off for the house. Glenn watched, confusion etched on his face.

"Anything else I should know?" Rick asked loudly, drawing the young man's attention to him.

"I don't know," Morgan played along. "Is there anything else, Glenn?"

Glenn choked. "No," he said, entirely too quickly. "But I think we should go back, as soon as possible. There's more we could use from there."

"Maybe you and I ought to go tomorrow," Morgan suggested. "Let the lady have a break."

"Yeah," Glenn looked like he's swallowed something sour all the sudden. "Maybe so."

"Must be something in the air…" Morgan mused a half hour later, once the wagon had been unpacked and the horses stowed away. He and Rick were walking back to the house. "It's got everyone seeing stars."

Rick laughed. "Hershel's gonna have a damn fit if they don't get better at hiding it," he said. He remembered being young, of sneaking around Lori's family plantation, reckless and hopelessly besotted. It had not ended well. He hoped that Hershel would be a more understanding father than Lori's.

"Speaking of," Morgan chuckled. "I got what you asked for. Both things actually." He swung a pack off his shoulders, handing it to Rick.

"Rick grinned outright, patting his friend warmly on the back. "I owe you," he said, peering inside.

"It's no problem," Morgan waved him off. "I remember when Jenny and I met. I wanted her to have all the beautiful things in the world."

Rick sobered at the memory of Morgan's wife. "She did. Jenny had you and Duane. Never was there a lovelier woman." He missed her terribly. He could only imagine how Morgan must feel. He felt guilty that he could not see his own late wife in a similar light.

"She was extraordinary," Morgan smiled at some private recollection. "Though Miss Michonne, she's a pretty close second."

"You ever consider marrying again?" Rick asked.

"Not even once," Morgan shook his head. "Though who knows? Maybe God's got other plans." He pointed at the pack in Rick's hands. "Hopefully, that'll help you on _your_ path to other plans." He joked.

Rick laughed, considering telling his friend about the kiss for a moment. He decided against it. There were some things he was wasn't ready to share, not yet.

"I hope so," he said, grinning.

-l-l-l-l-

"Where are you running off to?" Sasha asked her from her place on the bed.

Michonne paused, amused. "Who says I'm running off to anywhere?" she asked the young woman. She ceased fiddling with her hair in front of the large glass mirror in the corner, embarrassed to be found out like this. She couldn't stop smiling, not even as she drew curious looks from nearly every other adult in the house.

Sasha was unconvinced. She hesitated for a moment. "Can I speak some truth with you?" she asked Michonne seriously.

"Please do," Michonne sat down beside her. Sasha was a quiet woman, though Michonne suspected it was a learned behavior more so than her nature. There was a leader in there, she was sure of it. She saw glimpses of it from time to time, as Sasha became more comfortable with the group.

"My daddy," she began. "Did you know he was a white man?"

Michonne had suspected as much. It wasn't uncommon, though she found it despicable that people kept their children as slaves. "A common man?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"He was the son of the plantation owner," Sasha fixed her eyes on some place on the wall of the bedroom. "Took a shine to my mama. No one could tell when Tyreese was born, but when I came out, they all knew." She sighed. "His wife, she made my life miserable from the time I can remember, made my mama's life miserable too. As though it was something we chose. He had us in the big house for a while but…" Sasha paused. "Well, the fields were hard work, but I liked it better. I felt safer there."

Michonne digested this. "Which plantation?" she asked. There were so many she had wanted to free, so many lives she wished she could have saved. There had never been enough time.

"It doesn't matter now," Sasha blinked, looking back at her. "But I'll never forget the way my daddy looked at my mama like he didn't see her. Like he didn't see us."

Michonne nodded. She had seen it plenty herself, been on the receiving end of unwanted affections. It was why her mama raised her to be a fighter. There were plenty of men with morale scruples that left much to be desired. Still, life had proved their were good ones too. "Rick though, I don't think he's like that," she spoke.

"I don't think so either," Sasha agreed, toying with her long braid. Her curls had begun to escape the coif, springing free in the humidity of the evening. "He's a strange man. Ain't never met a white man like him." She shook her head, looking almost amused. "Still…"

"I'll be careful," Michonne promised her. "But this isn't the old world. The rules are changing."

"Maybe so," Sasha looked at her. "But that don't mean the old world is all the way dead." She sighed. "Figures that the world had to end for something good to happen to us."

Michonne knew the feeling intimately. "Maybe the world didn't end," she ventured. "Maybe another one is starting."

"God willing," Sasha smiled at her, just the slightest. "Tyreese thinks like you. He was always the gentler of the two of us," she laughed wryly.

"Maybe they'll be some opportunities for gentleness," Michonne said. Her mind went to Rick, to the way it felt when he held her, like she was made of porcelain.

"Be careful," Sasha cautioned. "Even kind men are susceptible to unkind actions."

"That's why I have my sword," Michonne half-joked.

Sasha nodded in approval. "Then I guess you better go. Rick's been on the porch since after dinner, looking like it's Christmas morning." She smiled at Michonne, standing up. "I'm going to go check on Tyreese," she said, exiting the room.

Michonne took one more glance in the mirror, taking herself in. She looked much the same as she remembered. Still, something was different.

Feeling hopeful, she picked up her sword and her borrowed coat, heading for the porch.

-l-l-l-l-l-

"Waiting for someone?" Hershel's voice startled Rick. He was standing on the porch, hands in his pockets, waiting eagerly for Michonne. He'd scrubbed his face pink in anticipation, and his damp hair was chilly in the wind. He'd been nervous since dinner, anxious to see her again.

Rick looked at his old friend. "Miss Michonne and I are going to take a walk," he told him.

Hershel's face creased. Rick was surprised at the expression. "You're mighty close to her, for a woman you hardly know." Hershel began.

Rick raised a brow. Hershel was prone to lecturing, that was no secret, but he'd never judged Rick, not like this. "I wouldn't say I hardly know her," he countered. "I saved her life, and her mine. She helped me save you and your girls."

"I'm not saying she's not a good woman," Hershel must have sensed his dissention, because he hastened to clarify. "But you have to children to think about Rick. You can't just have a dalliance with the first woman you come across—"

Rick's temper fired up at once. "What are you trying to say, Hershel?"

"I'm trying to say you can't just replace your wife with the first woman who comes along and smiles at you," Hershel ground out, lifting his hands. "Lori was a good woman—"

"You don't know anything about it," it came out harsher than Rick meant it to, but he did not regret the sentiment. Hershel saw Lori the way that Kings Country did, some southern belle with a sweet smile and a sweeter disposition.

"Now, just because you didn't all agree—" Hershel tried again.

Rick was having none of it. "It was more than some disagreement, Hershel." Rumors of her actions had reached him, even on the battlefield.

"She was scared, but she was a good woman. It isn't her fault that she was pregnant when the war came." Hershel defended.

"She wasn't," Rick's voice snapped, hitting his friend in the face like a whip.

Hershel paused, color draining from his face. "What are you saying?"

Rick stared at him. He knew his face was flushed, as heated as his mood. "You're a grown man, Hershel. I think you know what I'm saying."

Hershel gaped like a fish. "How do you know?"

"Pretty easy to know when you ain't shared a bed with your wife in months and you come home to find her ready to burst with child," Rick kept his voice to a harsh whisper. Judith was in the house. He had no intention of ever letting his children know.

"I didn't know…" Hershel stammered, deflated.

"There's plenty you don't know," Rick told him.

Footsteps sounded from inside the house, silencing both men immediately. The front door opened and there was Michonne, her hair loose around her shoulders, bundled into a leather coat, her sword in her belt.

"I'm sorry," she looked startled to find them red-faced and sullen. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You weren't," Hershel mustered a kind, if weak, smile at her. "Rick was just telling me you two were going to take a walk."

Michonne nodded, clearly on edge. She looked to Rick.

He took one breath, than another, calming himself. "Ready?" he asked her, extending his arm.

She took it, stepping outside, casting an anxious look back over her shoulder at Hershel. Rick led her down the stairs without another word to his friend, eager to get back to what he'd looked forward to all day.

"Is everything all right?" she asked him once they were out of earshot.

"Yes," Rick exhaled, stepping closer to her. Winter was arriving early this year, if the night chill was any indication. "Hershel just needs to mind his own business."

She laughed lightly at that, a tinkering sound, like chimes in the wind. It relaxed him marginally. "I can't say I'm surprised," she admitted.

"No?" Rick raised a brow at her.

Michonne shrugged. "Can't be many white men out here that want to openly court a negro woman," she said simply.

Rick stopped them, turning to face her. "It ain't that," he assured her. "And it wouldn't matter even if he thought that." She looked up at him, eyes wide, skeptical. "Hershel had a high opinion of my wife, like most everyone around here." He sighed. He'd intended to work up to this conversation, but it seemed it could not wait.

"He talks about her enough," a hint of annoyance colored her tone. Rick almost wanted to chuckle.

"I don't compare you two," he clarified for her. "There's no comparison anyway." He was older now, not some young boy thrilled that the prettiest girl on the plantation deigned to look his way.

She inhaled sharply, looking pleased though she tried to hide it. "How could you know that about me already?" she asked.

"I have never in my life met a person like you, Michonne." He kissed her cheek, delighted to find it warm against his lips. Rick started them on the path again, his hatchet bouncing against his side as they walked. "There's something I should tell you about her," he began. "Something that happened when I left."

"Something to do with Judith?" Michonne guessed, her clever eyes finding his. She let go of his arm, reaching for his hand instead.

Rick squeezed it. "Yeah," he took a deep breath. "It's something about Judith."


	13. Falling

"Doesn't matter if she isn't yours by blood. She's yours nonetheless."

The words echoed in Rick's ears, Michonne's sweet, soft voice ringing in his mind long after she spoke them. He told her everything. _Everything_. In the back of his beaten-up old wagon, sheltered from the cold of the night, staring up at the star-filled sky, Rick confessed things to her that had never before left his lips. His fights with Lori, how disenchanted he became with her before the end, his worries about the kind of man Carl would become under her tutelage. The fear he had as he was forced to march 300 miles to Mississippi, his head only filled with thoughts of his son. How he stole away, deserted after just one and a half battles, unable to even pretend to fight for something he knew was morally reprehensible. How he tried to repent in battle after battle with Morgan by his side, how he found his people in Jones town, how reluctant he was to leave it. He recounted returning home, determined to make amends after a year in Jones County to find his wife, ready to burst with another man's child.

"I wasn't there," he said. His heart hurt just to admit it, the hurricane of emotions roiling in his gut. Lori had been the picture of contrition when he arrived back to their house. She was quiet, skittish, always looking at him as though he was liable to suddenly burst in anger. Instead, Rick had been content to ignore her, to focus all his concerns on Carl. "I sent her to the Greene's, claiming I had work to do at the farm. Carl too. He was there when she died."

Michonne's hand grasped his tightly. She pushed hard at his palm, drawing his attention from self-loathing thoughts to her. "That's not your fault, Rick. She left you long before you left her," she said.

It was true, though it did little to comfort him. By all accounts, Lori had scarcely made it a week before she turned tail and ran for the Walsh Plantation. One of the men in Jones County had escaped from there. He'd recounted to his group seeing a thin, brunette woman smuggled into the farm with her young son. It had felt like someone had stabbed him in the gut, hurt worse than a month of nights of sleeping outside, marching on bleeding and blistered feet. The rage fueled him in battle. He imagined every enemy as Walsh, imagined that he could change things if only he could win the war. Even after all that, after running away, and the wedding, and their _son_ , she'd gone right back to what she knew. It was only when the Walsh plantation fell in the war that Lori had turned back, crawling sheepishly back to Rick's house. He'd never asked her where her lover went, never cared to know.

"Sometimes I wish that she'd have just married him when he'd asked her," Rick admitted. "That she hadn't chosen me in the beginning. She had no idea what she was agreeing to." He'd been so proud that day, arrogant in his youth, determined to give her the life they talked about as children. He'd outdone Shane Walsh, heir to the biggest plantation in Georgia. What a fool he had been.

"Can't blame her for choosing you," Michonne murmured. "You took in another man's baby. You protected her name, even after she did what she did," Michonne's face contorted, looking as though she'd swallowed something sour.

"For Carl," he clarified. He had loved Lori once, but not enough to lie for her. Whatever affection had been there had died a slow death during their separation. Still, he didn't relish in her pasing, or in seeing his son mourn so deeply for his mother.

"And for Judith," she reminded him. She leaned into his chest, resting her head against his shoulder. Rick held her closer to him, delighting in the feel of her.

"And for Judith," he acknowledged. Maggie's mama had kept her for the first few months, feeding her steadily on a diet of goat and cow's milk. He thought that the baby wouldn't be long in joining her mother, but Judith was a fighter. From the moment he could finally bring himself to hold her, Rick was a goner. He loved that little girl. Judging by the smile on her face, Michonne felt similarly. Overcome, he bent his head to hers, kissing her softly on the forehead.

Her smile widened, even as she dropped her eyes. How he could drive so strong a woman to be bashful, he wasn't sure, but he didn't mind it one bit. Tentatively, she trailed her hand up to his shoulder, toying with a few stray curls at the nape of his neck.

"I didn't want to spend all my time with you talking about Lori," he told her, returning her affections. He loved the way her hair felt, the thickness of the locs, the soft texture that tickled his fingers.

"What did you want to talk about?" she asked him, surprised.

"Tell me about you," he suggested. He was desperate to know more about her. It was odd that, considering the sheer number of stories he'd heard before they had ever crossed paths, Michonne was reluctant to speak about herself.

"I grew up across the border, near Toronto," Michonne began to speak, slowly, as though the details were returning to her. "My mama, she found out she was pregnant. Right after, my daddy got sold down the river. We never saw him again. Took my mama about a month to decide that she wanted better for me. She ran, made it a thousand miles, all the way to Canada." There was a hint of pride in her voice. "We stayed there until I was around 12 years old."

"Why'd you move?" Rick asked. He could picture a young Michonne, bundled against the Canadian winters, growing up with a mother that looked very much like the woman she was now. Canada was said to be better, though still hard for colored folk. At least there, they were free.

"There were more folks to save," Michonne said simply. "We made a dozen trips together before the war. Sometimes we split up. You could lead more people that way." She exhaled, lost in some memory. Rick held her tighter, hoping she'd continue. "Then the war happened. And we decided we needed to fight another way."

"Your mama fought too?" he asked, impressed.

"She was a spy. Her and Glenn, they'd steal across the lines, bring back information. We ended up in Atlanta, right before the siege."

Rick gave a start, realizing he'd been there too. The campaign had lasted only a day, but thousands had died, on both sides. It had been bitterly hot, the smell of blood in the air. He remembered it all, the men groaning and expiring in the fields, the bodies littering the hill. That July day would never leave him. Even with all that death, it wasn't until the fall that the Union won the city.

"Mama fought that day. She didn't make it," Michonne said. Her voice was flat, even as she sniffled suddenly. Embarrassed, she turned her head away from him.

Rick cupped her face, rubbing away her tears with his thumb. "It's all right," he whispered to her. In truth, the world was anything but. He often felt like collapsing under the weight himself. But she did not have to carry it alone.

The tears came hard and thick, as though a floodgate had been unleashed. "I stayed after that. I had to win that city for her," Michonne cried in earnest. "Couldn't bring myself to leave. I was like a ghost. I killed so many rebels, and it didn't help." She shook her head. "Nothing brought her back. I was hoping I could move her body, but a thousand miles…it felt impossible all of the sudden. I just stopped living." she trailed off, unable to say more.

Rick rocked her, trying to calm the tremors wracking her. She clung to him, face buried in his jacket.

"Your mama would be proud of you," Rick told her, knowing it was true. "You ain't a ghost. You're right here." He hoped it would be a comfort to her, despite their circumstances.

"So are you," she sniffled, wiping her face. Even tear-streaked, she was unbearably beautiful.

Without thinking anymore on it, he leaned down and kissed her.

-l-l-l-l-

Michonne wasn't quite sure how they had gotten here. She'd been crying, sobbing into Rick's jacket what seemed like only moments before, and now she was clinging to his shoulders, desperately trying to get closer to him. She felt like she was on fire, desire coursing through her veins, stronger than liquor, more potent than her rage on the battlefield, than her grief after mama passed. The hardwood of the wagon beneath her pushed into her back, but she found she did not care. Rick's weight atop her more than compensated, his hands wrapped around her hips, his mouth on hers.

She let out a shaky gasp when he disengaged, marking a wet path down her neck, sucking at her. Of their own accord, her legs tightened around his narrow waist. He fell into her, the heat of him pressing at her core, hard and unrelenting.

It was his turn to groan, the sound deep, reverberating through her, settling between her legs. "Michonne," he breathed her name, pulling back to look at her, awe written all over his face. She pulled him back to her mouth, desperate for his lips on hers once more. She opened her mouth beneath his, shivering as his tongue invaded her.

She wanted him. It was all that seemed to matter, the cry of her body. She felt like she might die if she couldn't have him. Michonne knew at once that this was the thing that women discussed, that rare, powerful pull, the emotion that led to babies out of wedlock, to sensible folks disregarding all logic.

She knew at once that this was the beginning of love, of a rabbit hole she never thought she'd be privileged enough to fall down.

"Rick," she whispered his name, coming up for air.

He leaned over her, still grinning. One hand came up to cradle her head. He kissed her again, once, and then twice in quick succession, tiny promises pressed into her skin with his lips. She stared up at him, grinning back.

"I want to stay here all night with you," he admitted, lying beside her. His hand clasped hers tightly.

"I do too," she said. His chivalry was raising its head again, overpowering his desire. She wasn't wholly unappreciative of it, though her body screamed in protest.

"We'll spend the night together soon," he promised. "But not out here in this wagon," he sighed, attempting to adjust his trousers circumspectly. Michonne didn't miss the motion. She began to giggle, even as he blushed.

"I'm sorry," she managed to squeak.

"You ain't," he countered. In a moment, he pounced, tickling her mercilessly. She laughed even harder. "I love that sound," he told her as she fought to catch her breath.

It was her turn to be embarrassed, her skin heating up like a furnace. "I like your laugh too," she whispered.

Rick sat up, straightening his clothing, gazing down at her with fondness. Reluctantly, he picked up his hatchet, climbing over the wagon and dropping to the grass outside. He reached for her, helping her down. Michonne seized her sword, following him over. Her legs shook like a newborn fawn, but he steadied her, reaching for her arm again. Together, they made their way back to the house.

"Carl and Judith are going to be sore at me for stealing you away," Rick told her.

"And here I thought I was stealing them from you," she teased. There was some truth to it. Carl and Judith could be found at her hip more often than not these days.

"Guess we'll have to share them," Rick compromised.

They walked the rest of the distance in comfortable silence, broken only by the low moans of the dead just outside the fence.

"I'll get those tomorrow," she told him, noticing his eyes drawn to his borders. Rick smiled at her, grateful.

"We start building tomorrow," he said. "Morgan brought back enough to put up at least one cabin."

"What else did he bring?" she asked, curious.

"A few other things. You'll see soon," he said cryptically, helping her up the stairs to the front door. The sounds of their companions could be heard from the porch. Michonne knew they were inside planning, strategizing for the winter ahead. She paused, wanting to snatch one last quiet moment.

Rick must have read her mind, because he bent down once more to kiss her, slow and sweet.

"Thank you," he told her.

"You're welcome," she smiled back.

The night flew by, a blur of meetings and bedtime stories. Michonne scarcely noticed Hershel's solemn attitude, or Glenn's questioning looks. She retired to bed with a smile on her face. Sasha simply laughed at her.

The laughter intensified the next morning when Michonne found a simple yellow dress folded in front of her door, a white Cherokee rose atop it.

It fit like a glove.

-l-l-l-l-

"Maggie," Rick called to her, catching her in the kitchen the next morning.

The young woman spun on him, her light green dress billowing, surprise on her face. "Morning, Rick," she greeted politely. Hastily, she pulled up the neckline of her dress, hiding a small, red mark below her collarbone from his gaze. He resisted the urge to laugh.

"Morning," Rick was in a fine mood. The sun was out already, and most of the house was outside, measuring for the first of the cabins. "I was wondering if I could ask you a favor," he cut right to the point.

"Of course," Maggie raised a brow in surprise, but immediately looked interested. "Does this has something to do with Miss Michonne?" she asked slyly.

"It does," there was no point in denying it, nor did he want to.

Maggie grinned. "You've taken a shine to her," she said.

"I have," Rick agreed. It was more than just a shine, but there was no need to disclose that to Maggie.

"What do you need?" she asked.

"I had Morgan grab some fabric from me, from your place," he told her. Maggie's mother had been a seamstress. She'd left piles of it behind to her daughters after the flu took her. "I hope you don't mind. I was hoping you might make a dress for me."

Maggie laughed. "Well, you're a handsome fellow to be sure, but I'm not sure a dress would suit you, Rick."

Rick let out a surprised bark of laughter. Maggie's sharp wit had gotten stronger since she was a teenager. "It ain't for me," he clarified. "Miss Michonne, she's in need of one."

"Really?" Maggie blinked confusedly. "I thought you brought her one. I saw her this morning in an old one of mama's," she said.

It was Rick's turn for confusion. "I only asked Morgan for the fabric," he said. "She's about the same size as your mother was. I was hoping you'd make her one of her own."

"It's Beth you want for that, not me," Maggie informed him. "But I'll make sure it gets done." She looked thoughtful. "Glenn was going through the house for clothes. Maybe he grabbed it. He's got a high opinion of Miss Michonne. He might do something nice like that."

Rick paused, mind spinning. "Seems like you might have a high opinion of Glenn," he ventured.

She went scarlet immediately, but held his eyes. "I'm deciding on that."

"Might want to figure it out before disappearing for an hour with him again," Rick suggested gently. His eyes flicked again to the round mark just peeking out of her dress.

Maggie cursed softly under her breath, drawing another startled laugh from Rick. The preacher's daughter had none of her father's reservations. "Morgan saw us?"

"He wasn't born yesterday," Rick confirmed. "And neither was I. Or your daddy."

Maggie waved this off. "I don't care what daddy thinks of Glenn. It matters what I think."

Rick was inclined to agree. "Still, you don't want him in your daddy's bad graces before you even make a decision about him."

Maggie considered this. "That's a fair point," she admitted. "Daddy's been different lately. I ain't seen him like this since mama died."

"There's no liquor around here," Rick offered, hoping it would be a comfort to the young woman. "And your daddy, he's going to have to figure this new world out, same as the rest of us." He was still sore with his old friend.

Maggie nodded. "I'll go talk to Beth about the dress," she said. "She needs something besides the children to keep her busy. She's prone to blue periods too, like Daddy." For a moment, Maggie looked unbearably lonely, as though the world all hung right above her head. Rick felt a stab of sympathy.

"Thank you," Rick reached for her, ruffling her hair. Maggie swatted him away, but it had its desired effect.

"Cut that out," she said, giggling. "I ain't a baby anymore."

"True, but you can _have_ a baby now," he couldn't resist one final warning.

"Rick!" she exclaimed, scandalized.

"Just a reminder," he said as a parting shot. He left her shaking her head, hurrying outside. He wanted to catch a glimpse of Michonne in this dress. Perhaps Glenn had beaten him to it. The idea irritated him a bit, but not enough to begrudge Michonne having something pretty.

He caught sight of her, the yellow fabric shining in the sun, off near the vegetable patch. His heart jumped when he noticed Hershel was with her. His friend was wearing a solemn expression. Michonne's back was to Rick.

Without thinking, Rick hastened towards them.


	14. Courting

**A/N: Thank you for all the lovely feedback! I tried my hand at something different in this chapter. Please brace yourself for some old-world courting (and some sugary sappiness). I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

As Hershel suspected the night before, Miss Michonne looked as lovely in the buttercream colored dress as his wife had when she wore it. He'd kept almost all of Josephine's clothing, some to bestow on his daughters, but more simply for the reason that parting with it made her death more _real_. He was not prepared, then or now, to live without her. Josephine had loved those fabrics, selecting them, hand-embroidering them, taking great joy in shaping them lovingly into garments for her friends and family. Now Josephine was gone, leaving him with two girls and a world that seemed more foreign to him every day.

He was not adapting well. Hershel was painfully aware of this, as he had been aware of his slip into sin upon Josephine's passing. He was a weak man, though he played the part of strength well for the crowd. Life had always seen fit to tip him this way and that, rocking him when he least expected the jolt. Always, _always_ , he lost his footing, to his great shame.

That shame burned bright now, heightened by new revelations. It had been so easy for Hershel to consider himself the victim. After all, it was his family who had taken in a pregnant Lori, his wife who had prayed over her as she died then raised Judith for that first precarious month of her life. It was he who had coaxed Rick back to sanity, he who held Josephine's hand as she slipped into the next life, he who raised two daughters alone, and kept up a church, he who kept the farm going, who recovered from the edge of alcoholism. Meanwhile, the world had gone on around him, seemingly blind to his grief, just as he was blind to those around him.

It was clear that Rick bore the pain of this world with much more grace than Hershel had ever thought to give him credit for. That spindly, hopeless romantic of a young man with wild ambitions and abolitionists leanings had matured during the war. Perhaps he had lost something, that innocence that endeared Hershel to him years ago, that earnestness to right all the world's wrongs. Still, Rick had gained something too, a new strength, some ability to endure, to raise children, to love a daughter that wasn't his as his own, to try again. Perhaps it was time for Hershel to take a lesson from his protégé.

"Good morning," he called to Michonne, keeping his tone congenial, as though he was greeting parishioners on Sunday morning.

She paused, turning to him. The Cherokee rose was tucked behind her ear, gleaming white and pristine against the ebon of her hair. Hershel was temporarily startled by her beauty. If Rick hadn't seen her already, he was sure to have an episode when he did. "Good morning," she ventured, cautious. Her hand touched the hilt of her sword almost instinctively.

"I was hoping I could have a word," Hershel began, suddenly nervous. "Would you join an old man for a morning walk?" He'd seen her face upon returning from her stroll the night before, the gleam that would not leave she nor Rick's eyes. If it wasn't love already, it would be soon.

"I suppose so," she said, eyebrows lifting in surprise, her mouth pursing into a perfect O. She had a gentle voice for so fierce a warrior, and rarely raised it. When she spoke, people simply seemed to listen. She would have made a marvelous preacher.

Hershel extended his arm, remembering his manners. Josephine would have been appalled with his behavior over the last few weeks. He needed to make amends. "I'm afraid I'm not quite as good company as Rick, but…" he trailed off, chuckling. Michonne looked back at him like she wasn't sure what to make of him. Reluctantly, she took his elbow.

"It's a beautiful day," she ventured, watching him from the corner of her eye. Hershel led her along the path to the garden. He'd thrown all his efforts into tilling this little piece of land, determined to be helpful in some way. It was almost ready for planting.

"It is," he agreed, "made more beautiful by your presence."

The compliment had the countereffect of calming Michonne. She stopped outright, her feet halting, her body tense. She looked at him, mistrust clear on her face.

"Miss Michonne," Hershel cleared his throat, finding the courage. "I owe you an apology."

She blinked, still silent, still watching. He continued on.

"It's much too late in coming, of course," he coughed. Her stare was unnerving, cutting to the quick of him. "I was hasty in my judgement of you, unkind in my treatment…" he scrambled for words. "I was comparing you to a dead woman, concerned about something that wasn't my business."

"It wasn't," she confirmed, speaking at last.

"No," he faltered again. "I've never been very good at seeing my own faults, Miss. Mayhaps that's why I see so many in other people. I'm very sorry. You're a kind and gentle woman and I should not have overstepped."

He paused, attempting to get a read on her. Michonne stared back at him, her dark eyes unmoving.

"You gave me this dress?" she guessed at last.

"It was my wife's," he nodded. "She was a woman like you, strong and brave and—" he broke off, the sting of memory and regret filling him. "She would have liked you to have it."

Michonne smoothed one hand down her skirt. "And the flower?"

"Cherokee Rose," Hershel said. "It's said that the tears of the mothers forced from their lands watered them, making them beautiful. I just thought, for a woman who led so many to freedom, that it was fitting." He had a sudden moment of misgiving.

There was a long, pregnant pause. Then, "thank you," Michonne said at last. "It's beautiful." Her hand came up to touch the petals.

Hershel pressed on. "I know it doesn't remove the stain of what I did, but—"

She silenced him, reaching for his hand to give it a firm squeeze. "We should start fresh," she announced. "It's a new world, after all."

It was an odd statement, what with the dead groaning and moaning just outside the fence. Hershel knew that Rick and the other young men would be outside soon, ready to start the chore of putting the dead to a true rest.

"It is," he agreed.

"Then, it's nice to meet you, Mr. Greene. Thank you for the dress," she smiled at him. Hershel saw immediately why Rick was besotted.

"The pleasure is mine, Miss Michonne," he gave her a little bow. Her laugh lit up the morning. Hershel found himself laughing right along with her.

"Good morning…" Rick's voice entered the fray, followed quickly by its owner. Confusion was etched across his face. "What are you two doing out here?" he asked, clearly ready to intervene.

"Just thanking Mr. Greene for my dress," it was Michonne who spoke. She released Hershel, already reaching for Rick. Rick accepted her hand, looking one part baffled, one part pleased.

"You look beautiful," Rick kissed Michonne's hand. In seconds, Hershel was forgotten completely.

He didn't mind so much, leaving the couple to one another as he continued toward the field, feeling lighter than he had in weeks.

-l-l-l-l-

"A flower though?" Rick questioned his old friend. "I don't have to worry about you trying to court her now, do I?"

Hershel looked startled at the thought. "I did not mean for the gesture to be romantic, I just wanted to apologize. The girls, they enjoy it when I bring them blossoms." Hershel scrambled to explain.

Rick found himself grinning. "I'm glad that you apologized to her. I just wish you wouldn't have beaten me to giving her a gift."

Hershel blushed, looking abashed. "I do not think that Miss Michonne would object to any gift from you, whatever you choose to give. And it is not only to her that I owe an apology."

Rick regarded his old friend. "You didn't know," he said.

"I did not wish to know," Hershel corrected. "I heard a rumor, but I did not want to believe it. You loved her so much, Richard. I remember many times you sought my counsel about her, long before you were married." Hershel looked as though the mere memory saddened him.

"I did," Rick agreed. "That was a long time ago. She gave me Carl, and Judith. I could never hate her. But I don't love her either. She knew that before the end. I got lots of regrets with how that turned out, but Michonne…she ain't one of them." She'd looked like the sun coming up when Rick saw her in the early morning light. He didn't think he'd ever see a sight so beautiful.

"I'm sorry, Rick," Hershel said. "And I'm sorry you had to go through that alone." He looked so earnest that Rick felt the last of his anger melt away.

"I'm not alone anymore," Rick reminded him. "We're going to need you, all of us. Someone's got to lead the farming and keep the faith."

Hershel smiled at this. "It's a good thing I'm a preacher then."

"A very good thing," Rick agreed, reaching for his hand. Hershel shook it heartily. "Michonne, she's showing your girls how to fight. I know it ain't your thing but—"

"They'll need it," Hershel agreed readily. "This isn't the world I raised them to grow up in. We all are going to have to get stronger now."

Rick was pleased. "Then why don't you take Theodore and Daryl, see if you can't work some of your pacifist magic. The pair of them are liable to kill each other over." In truth, Theodore and Daryl had stopped fighting about the incident in the forest and had begun fighting for the attentions of Sasha. Morgan was right; _something_ was in the air.

"I'll put them to work," Hershel promised. "And if there's anything I can do to atone for my actions…"

Rick considered this, a question rising to his mind. "That Cherokee rose, Michonne said it had a meaning."

"It did," Hershel nodded, somewhat confused.

Do all flowers have them?" Rick asked.

Hershel grinned, looking impressed. "I'll make you a list."

With a wink and a thank you, Rick left him to his work, intent on spending the remainder of the hour with Michonne. It did not goes as planned.

Rick was able to snatch a single kiss from Michonne that day before duty called. On the one hand, he supposed he should be grateful; chivalry was a much easier task when the object of his affections was out of his line of sight. That dress had nearly undone him completely. She was a vision, flower in her hair, sword at her side, Judith at her hip as she set about teaching the woman on the farm how to fight. He only managed to watch her for a few minutes before Glenn made an appearance. There were fields to plow, food to grow, supplies to scavenge, a fence to reinforce, cabins to build. Duty called.

Beth brought the men dinner that evening in the field. Even Hershel worked with them well into the night, laying the foundation of the first two cabins until well after sundown. By the time that they dragged themselves home, cleaned themselves up, and shuffled off to their respective rooms, it was late into the night. Michonne paused only to offer Carl and Judith a goodnight kiss and him a longing look before retiring.

Exhausted, but missing her nonetheless, Rick found paper and a pencil, and sat down to write by the low light of a lamp. Judith and Carl slept soundly around him, their soft breathing lulling him off, even as he carefully wrote a note for Michonne. He hoped she would receive it before anyone else got to it first. Theodore and Glenn were less likely to find the gesture romantic than hilarious. It was worth the risk. He found that while it was difficult for him to pour out poetry from his lips, romantic words came easily from his pen.

 ** _Michonne,_**

 ** _As radiant as you looked in the early morning sun today, can I admit to you that I was irritated to be beaten out at a romantic gesture by Hershel? Just when I think I'm going to have to slap some sense into him, he makes me want to slap him for a whole different reason. I suppose I'll have to forgive him, but only because he was kind to you._**

 ** _I look forward to stealing away for a moment together. I've been thinking of you all day, even while working. I want to hear all about your lessons, about the ladies and children learning to fight, about how your day went, but above all, I want to just sit in your presence._**

 ** _Yours,_**

 ** _Rick_**

He slipped the note under her door, almost embarrassed by the romantic gesture, unsure how it would be received. At breakfast the next morning, Michonne wore a bright smile, pausing once everyone had dispersed for the day to give him a lingering kiss that set his blood boiling. When he found her return letter that night on his pillow, he decided to make the gesture a ritual.

 _Rick,_

 _I've never gotten a love letter before, not to mention written one. Forgive me if I fall short of the mark. I don't know where you learned to write like that, but your note yesterday was better than a hundred dresses. As for Hershel, old men don't often easily change, but he is trying._

 _You should have seen Carol and Beth today. The least I can say for them is they don't lack enthusiasm. But Carl and Duane could best either one of them one-handed. I think they may be ready to try and face a walker now (with our supervision, of course)._

 _Maggie is a more natural talent, though she is easily distracted when Glenn is within eyeshot. Perhaps I should let him give her the lessons._

 _I miss you too. My skin seems to hum anytime you are near me, as though it anticipates your touch. I pray I won't have to wait long to feel it again._

 _Yours,_

 _Michonne_

 ** _Michonne,_**

 ** _You are either a bold-faced liar, or simply talented at everything you try. That was the best letter I've ever received._**

 ** _As for touching you, I'm afraid if I start, I might never stop again. It's difficult enough to be a gentleman around you as it is, but I'm going to try. You deserve all the good things that are left in this world, the soft kisses, the flowers, the dresses—whatever you want. I intend to give them to you all in good time. But first, we must make a life here, a safe place for the world to go on._**

 ** _I hope for today, that this gift will suffice. Lilies for your beauty, daffodils for new beginnings, and morning glory for my affections for you. All of them pale in comparison to you._**

 ** _Yours,_**

 ** _Rick_**

 _Dear Rick,_

 _Daily chores (even the disposal of the walkers) seem somehow easier when there are flowers in my hair, especially when you have given them to me. Not only do they disguise the smell, but they are a daily reminder of you. And returning to a room with a vase full of them…it's an unexpected delight even when Sasha teases mercilessly. Glenn has begun asking questions too, though he suddenly finds other places to be when I bring up Miss Maggie. For a spy, he lacks subtlety._

 _I should not be too harsh though. I am making no effort to hide the smile on my face, nor my breathless nature when I return from spending time with you. It is never enough. I long for your hand in mine, your lips on mine, the feel of you touching me._

 _Yours,_

 _M_

 ** _My dearest Michonne,_**

 ** _You are not alone in your longing. It is a blessing and a curse that our time alone together is short. If I were to write here all the things I hope to do with you, you would certainly blush. I dream of your lips, those soft sighs you utter when I kiss you, the sounds you make when my hands are on you._**

 ** _One day, and soon, our time together will be limitless, and I will show you exactly what my intentions are for you. In the meantime, know that I am always touching you in my mind's eye, and that I never intend to stop._**

 ** _Yours always,_**

 ** _R_**

 _Dearest Rick,_

 _As much as I love your letters of endearment, I would much rather you whisper the words in my ear. Perhaps you've realized it, but there is something about your voice that undoes me completely. It echoes even in my dreams._

 _Judith asked me today why we exclude her and Carl from our evening walks. I was not sure what to tell her. She seemed to accept my explanation that I spend all day with her and Carl, but that evenings are reserved for you._

 _If Judith has noticed, do you think Carl has as well? I'm certain that Carl knows. Do you think he is all right? I know that I am not his mother. I would not want to overstep._

 _Yours,_

 _M_

 ** _Darling Michonne,_**

 ** _Carl_ _does_ _know. He asked me a week ago. I explained that I'm courting you. To quote him, he said simply, "That's good," and smiled. If possible, he might have more affection for you than even me. Judith as well. You are well-loved around this house. I hope you know it. And while you may not be his mother by blood, he certainly looks to you for maternal guidance._**

 ** _Though it's tiring to go so many days in a row without any significant alone time with you, I must admit it drives me to work harder. Once the cabins are up, we may have the space, and time, to speak freely face to face. I am looking forward to it._**

 ** _Yours truly,_**

 ** _R_**

 ** _PS Maggie and Glenn assuredly have something going on. Ask me about it later tonight. I'll tell you what I know._**

 _Dearest Rick,_

 _I will see you tonight._

 _Eagerly yours,_

 _M_


	15. Arguments and Revelations

**A/N: Well, that was a longer delay than normal. My thanks to all of you who reviewed and messaged and left feedback! I'm so flattered that you're enjoying the story.**

 **I hope you like this next chapter!**

* * *

The occupants of the Grimes's family farm raced to the epicenter of the fight the moment it broke out. Even the dead, wandering aimlessly just beyond the fence, began to press towards them, mouths agape and snapping, drawn to the noise. Michonne, for her part, was not sure where to intervene. At first glance it seemed that the occupants of the new cabins were engaged in an all-out brawl, silhouetted by the low light of the evening.

Rick leapt in immediately, seizing a disheveled Daryl by the collar, nearly tossing him out of the path of Theodore. Morgan took a more pacifist approach and laid a hand on Theodore, calming him with gently murmured words. Nearby, Tyreese was holding Sasha back. Her hair had slipped from its coiled plait, frizzing about her head as she huffed and puffed like a wounded animal. More confusing than this was Beth, red-faced and blotchy, tears streaming as she threw what Michonne could only describe as a tantrum. Hershel was nearby, looking similarly appalled, though his glare was fixed not on Daryl and Theodore, but another couple. In the epicenter, Glenn and Maggie stood together, blushing furiously. They were both in various stages of undress. Maggie appeared to be wearing Glenn's shirt and not much else, while Glenn, shivering, stood in hastily drawn up trousers. The noise was deafening, everyone shouting at once.

"What the hell is going on?" Rick raised his voice over the crowd, irritation coloring his words. The resulting silence was resounding. The whole group of them looked shameful, like children caught with their hands in the cookie jar. Rick threw up his hands, looking at Michonne from his place in the center of the fray, an expression of exasperation on his face that Michonne knew was mirrored on her own.

"Carol," Michonne turned to the woman beside her. Her diminutive companion clutched her baby bump, looking one part enthralled and one part nervous. "Do you mind taking the children inside?" Whatever this was, Carl, Duane, and Judith did not need to witness it.

"Dang it," Carl whispered under his breath. Michonne shot him a warning look. "Sorry," he hastily apologized. "I wanted to see," he mumbled, thwarted.

"Take Judith inside," Michonne instructed him.

Judith protested. "But Miss Michonne, we were going for a walk!" She stood beside her brother, blonde curls bouncing defiantly, echoing his disappointment.

"We already went for a walk." It was Rick who intervened. "Now you and Duane and Carl are going to walk on home." The children had the good sense not to argue any further.

"Beth, you go on inside too," Hershel spoke up.

"Daddy—" she began to protest.

"Now," Hershel said definitively. Even Michonne was caught off-guard by his tone.

"Come on," Duane led the charge, eager to be away from whatever adult nonsense that was unfolding. He gave his father a dignified nod before taking Carol's arm and moving on, Carl and Judith at his heels.

Beth stomped away, still crying. Rick looked around again, bewildered. "What is going on?" he repeated, stressing every syllable.

Daryl glowered, Theodore scowled, Tyreese shook his head, Sasha crossed her arms over her chest, Maggie and Glenn clustered closer to one another, and Hershel sighed. It was Morgan who spoke.

"We came down to decide how we were going to fit in the cabins," Morgan's voice was as calm as ever. "The idea was that Duane, Theodore, Tyreese and I would take one, and that Glenn, Daryl, and Hershel would take the other. The women could keep on staying up at the big house, until we could build a third cabin." Morgan paused.

"And?" Rick prompted. His eyes darted back to Maggie and Glenn.

Morgan shook his head with a scoff, continuing on. "Sasha didn't want to be parted from Tyreese." Morgan shrugged. "Theodore and Daryl both extended invitations for the pair of them to live in their cabins."

"You cannot just pawn me off," Sasha spoke up, furious. "I'm sick of them arguing over me like I'm something pretty they can trade." She leveled a look at both Theodore and Daryl that shamed the pair of them immediately.

"She smacked them both," Tyreese had more than a note of pride in his voice, even as he moved to ensure that Sasha could not repeat the performance.

Michonne bit back a laugh, noticing that Rick seemed to be struggling with the same thing. Morgan looked amused as well.

"All right," Rick managed to muster the self-control to swallow down his mirth. "What's going on with you two?" he directed his attention to Maggie and Glenn.

"It's obvious, ain't it?" Daryl spoke up. "They were in our cabin, making the beast with two backs."

The trio of Hershel, Glenn, and Maggie all ran beet red. Tyreese and Sasha began to poorly stifle their chuckles.

"My own daughter, engaging in such sinful acts," Hershel seemed to be choking on the words.

"Mr. Greene," Glenn stepped up, attempting to smooth over the situation. Maggie spoke over him.

"Daddy, it ain't sinful," she said, defiant and confident. "I love him!"

Glenn jumped at this proclamation just as much as Hershel. "You do?" the both of them asked in sync.

Hershel shot Glenn a scathing look. "Margaret, your mother and I raised you better than _this_." He emphasized the word, gesturing wildly at nothing in particular. "A respectable man would have come to me, asked for my daughter's hand—"

Glenn opened his mouth to speak for himself, but Maggie again commandeered the conversation.

"Glenn _is_ respectable," she defended, her voice rising in pitch. "He's more of a gentleman than any of those who came calling from town before…"

"This is not respectable!" Hershel's own voice ratcheted up in volume. "Copulating out in the dark, and unmarried…Look how you upset your sister!"

"She's only upset that I have someone, and she doesn't!" Maggie argued back.

Meanwhile, the whole group watched the pair shouting as though it were a game of badminton, each opponent lobbying their words at the other.

"Mr. Greene," Glenn began to impart. "I never meant to disrespect your daughter. I—"

"Hush," Maggie's voice became much more kind as she addressed her lover. "You haven't done anything wrong. I'm a grown woman," she directed this point at her father. "And I can make my own decisions." With an annoyed look and a huff, Maggie seized the lantern at her feet and stomped back into the nearest cabin. Glenn moved to follow her but Hershel protested.

"I'd like a word with my daughter," he said, glaring. Glenn froze like a deer, watching the preacher follow Maggie into the cabin.

"My shirt…" he protested weakly.

"Come on," Tyreese said kindly. "I'll lend you one of mine." Despite the fact that any clothing of Tyreese's was liable to dwarf Glenn, the young man nodded, and began to follow him.

"Wait a minute," Sasha protested. "What are we going to do about the cabins?" She looked at Rick expectantly.

Rick stood, wide-eyed, still processing the scene in front of him. Michonne took pity, speaking up.

"Sasha, Tyreese, you stay in the house until we can finish cabin three," Michonne instructed. "Morgan, would you and Duane mind living with the Greenes?"

Morgan shook his head. "We'd be fine with that."

Michonne nodded gratefully. "Then Theodore, Daryl, Glenn," she looked at each man in turn. "You will be in the other cabin. I expect you to behave." She dared them to contradict her. None of them had the courage to protest, though they all looked as though they swallowed sour fruit. "You can start by taking care of those." She pointed towards the fence in the distance where half a dozen walkers were struggling to get through.

"Well?" Rick prompted. "You guys going to stand out here and fight some more, or are you done?"

Daryl was first to move, seizing his crossbow and walking off, clearly still angry. Theodore trailed him, machete in tow. Glenn looked around dizzily, still shivering without a shirt.

"Michonne," he began pleadingly.

Michonne let out the laugh she'd been holding. "Go get dressed, Glenn."

"I didn't even know she liked me," he mumbled wildly under his breath.

"I'd say she more than likes you," Michonne could not help her continued giggles. Rick gave Glenn a pitying look.

"Go on back to the house," Rick told Glenn.

Glenn took off with a bewildered expression. Michonne knew she'd be getting an earful later. She started to move back towards Rick when Sasha intercepted her.

"I would have thought you would have wanted your room to yourself," Sasha said.

"I don't mind sharing a bed," Michonne did not pause to consider her response. She was eager to put this whole situation behind her.

Sasha smiled mischievously. "I didn't say you wouldn't be sharing…" she teased.

"Sasha," the admonishment came from Rick. A pink blush was staining his cheeks, but he managed to look no-nonsense. Sasha simply shrugged.

"Just trying to help," she said innocently. "It'd be a shame if Glenn and Maggie were the only two lovers 'round this place."

"Maybe you should pick between Theodore and Daryl then," Rick suggested.

Sasha simply snorted.

"I'll see you inside," Michonne resisted the urge to sigh, instead waving the girl back to the house. She was not sorry to watch them all go.

"Let's leave them to it," Rick walked towards her, away from the sounds of arguing just inside the cabin. Michonne took his hand eagerly. Rick led her not back to the house, but away from it, heading for the shelter of the barn.

"So," Michonne began, skirt swishing at her heels as they walked. "Glenn and Maggie are most definitely involved."

Rick began to laugh in earnest, deep rolling chuckles that set her giggling as well. "I saw them wander off together a few days ago, but I didn't think Hershel would catch them with their pants down, at least not that quickly." he shook his head. "That is not how I pictured our night going."

"No?" Michonne feigned surprise. "Why was it that you wanted to show me those cabins after we put the children to bed?" she asked. Her heart was thumping wildly in her chest despite her outward calm. Rick's hand wrapped around hers was often enough to start the butterflies roiling in her belly, but tonight, the look he had given her after he received her last letter…it was liable to melt her into a puddle.

He blushed, going crimson though he fixed his eyes on her, tilting his head towards her. "Believe me, when we cross that bridge, I have no intention of doing it in a dark, cold cabin." he drew her hand to his lips, kissing it softly. Bolts of pleasure shot straight down her spine.

"When?" she found herself asking. Her mind had been consumed of late with thoughts of nothing but this. It was no wonder that Sasha teased her. Truthfully, Michonne wasn't sure she could stand much more of this teasing. Every time she came in contact with Rick, the task seemed more insurmountable. She'd caught herself on multiple occasions wondering what it would be like, what a child of theirs might look like. Each time, she barely managed to contain the fantasy. Rick, for his part, was not shy in expressing his appreciation for her, but was bound by manners that Michonne had never had to contend with before. His morale code seemed likely to kill her before he ever broke.

Rick led her to the barn again. "Take a ride with me," he suggested, holding the door open for her.

"To where?" Despite her frustration, her excitement was building. She hadn't been on a horse since the night they rescued the others, nearly two months back.

"Anywhere," he shrugged, already moving to saddle their mounts.

They ended up in the empty fields nearby, racing and whooping, ignoring the moaning of the dead watching off in the distance. It felt phenomenal, the wind in her hair, the cool breeze as the sun dipped beyond the horizon, the sounds of Rick laughing and cheering whenever she landed an impressive feat. The horse beneath her, a chestnut mare, took to her guidance willingly, as though they'd been partners the whole time. Michonne was filled with joy to find that riding still felt like freedom.

She paused, breathless, allowing Rick to catch up. He rode next to her, at home in the saddle, a grin fixed on his face. She smiled back at him. He took a deep breath. "You asked me when we would lay together," he began somewhat sheepishly.

Michonne nodded, swallowing thickly. She'd been afraid he wouldn't answer. "I did."

He steered his mare closer to hers. "Don't think I don't want to, Michonne," he told her, his eyes burning into her. "I just want something else first."

"What's that?" she asked, truly curious. She had known many men in her lifetime, both evil and kind, but never before had she heard of a man turning down a woman.

He chuckled, looking slightly embarrassed. Nervously, his free hand came up to toy with his hair, upsetting the curls there. "Well," he began, turning his body towards hers. "I had hoped you'd marry me first."

The words rang in Michonne's ears, fuzzy and dull, the way the world sounded when a canon went off too closely to you. All logical thought seemed to flee her mind in one fell swoop. "Rick," she could barely get his name out. She felt weak at the knees, not an uncommon sensation around Rick, but disconcerting nonetheless.

"Michonne," his grin widened, even as he drew her closer. "Are you all right?"

Michonne was still deciding. Once upon a time, before life had quickly removed such delusions, she had harbored fantasies of getting married. The women in the town a few miles from where she had lived, they married in big churches, with their hair in ribbons, bundled into hoop skirts and lace. Michonne had wondered who would be her groom one day, whether they'd have a big church wedding or jump the broom.

"Marry?" she repeated, her voice trembling.

"I was planning on asking properly," Rick swallowed thickly, scooting closer to her. He began to dismount. "But I don't think we're ever going to get a real moment alone."

It was an understatement, really. This morning, Judith had burst into Michonne's bedroom as Michonne had been changing. Carl and Duane were prone to shadowing Michonne on her daily chores. Glenn always wanted to joke with her, Carol always wanted fighting lessons, and Morgan was game for a conversation in any spare second she had. And Rick…poor Rick, not a single moment of his day was not dominated by someone needing his assistance urgently.

"But we can't get married," she protested weakly, her mind spinning.

"Why not?" he asked her, confused.

"The law—" she began. She'd seen many people killed for far less than what Rick was suggesting.

Rick cut her off, reaching up to help her down. He coaxed the reigns from her hands. "There's no law anymore," he reminded her gently. "And it was a foolish law to begin with. Besides, you've had plenty of practice breaking foolish laws," he smiled warmly at her. Michonne stared back at him, still unable to process her feelings.

She never thought that she'd be getting married, not once in her adult life. Mama hadn't been, and if she'd had a paramour in all of her time with Michonne, Michonne had never known it. Marriage was for white ladies, ladies whose husbands couldn't have been sold or traded off, for women who had pretty dresses and lace garments and sipped mint juleps in the shade. Marriage was for women who could walk about in broad daylight, who had nothing to fear. Suddenly nervous, she set out to dismount, with far less grace than she normally did.

"Michonne," Rick lifted her from the horse as she came tumbling from the saddle. He tilted her chin towards him, his voice soft. "I'm not going to force you," he told her. "But this ain't that world anymore. You don't have to marry me," he paused, sucking in a deep breath. "But there's nothing to be afraid of if you do."

Michonne clutched his hand. "Why do you want to marry me?" she asked him.

Rick blinked in surprise. "Because I love you," he said, no hint of hesitation in his voice.

-l-l-l-l-

Rick felt a profound sense of relief as the words left his lips. They'd been on the tip of his tongue for weeks now. Every time he looked at her, read one of her letters, saw her with Carl by her side or Judith in her lap, they'd almost escaped him. It wasn't the all-consuming, fast-burning infatuation he'd had with Lori. This was new, this was different. This was like finding a foothold when you were free falling, like encountering calm in the middle of a storm.

"I love you, Michonne," he repeated it, louder this time, feeling the same sense of joy to say it out loud once more. She began to tear up at once, emotions unraveling her. Rick draped his arm around her waist, leaning close. "You don't have to give me an answer tonight," he whispered into her hairline, his lips just skirting her forehead. "But I want you to know."

If she rejected his offer, he would be hurt, to be sure. But Rick was nothing if not a patient man. He would wait as long as he had to.

She hugged him tightly, her arms squeezing as though she was checking to make sure he was real. He anchored her, allowing her to cry, rocking her lightly. The horses nickered behind them, anxious as the day slipped into night.

"I love you too," she mumbled it into his shirt, but he heard it. He released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"What?" he prompted, feeling like half a fool, but needing to hear it again.

"I love you too," she straightened up, looking him in the eye this time, her expression filled with adoration. Overcome, he dropped a kiss on her lips. She pulled back. "Marriage though?" she asked, still baffled. Rick could not fully blame her. The concept would have been nearly unheard of not but a few months before. "Will Carl and Judith be ok with that? Will the rest of them?" she asked.

Rick found himself chuckling. "Considering it's my house, I'd say they'd better get all right with it as soon as possible." He would hear no criticism from anyone on his relationship with Michonne. "As for Carl and Judith," he stroked her hair. "We wouldn't make the most conventional family," he admitted, "but having you as a mother isn't something I can see them protesting."

Michonne considered this, her lips pursed, her mind clearly racing. Rick held her, containing anymore arguments he might have had to state his case. She needed time to think, and he was willing to give it to her.

"Rick," she began, licking her lips. "I—"

Behind her, one of the horses reared, letting out a panicked neigh. Both animals began to move restlessly. Rick pushed Michonne behind him at once.

The source of their fear became apparent when the horses began to bolt, exposing the hole in the fence through which walkers were now streaming. Behind him, Michonne unsheathed her sword, assuming her warrior's stance.

"Together?" she asked him without fear, her eyes on the dead.

"Together," Rick seized his hatchet, already moving forward, Michonne at his side.


	16. Yes

**A/N: Moving right along! Apologies that this chapter is slightly shorter, but I hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

Theodore and Daryl were still arguing. To be more accurate, Theodore was explaining to in a loud, angry voice exactly Daryl all of the reasons that Daryl did not deserve Sasha. And yes, on some level, Glenn sympathized completely with Theodore. The first time he and Theodore has seen Daryl, the sullen man had just tracked them down for his racist brother and delivered them into Merle's greedy, violent hands. However, if he was being honest with himself (and he most often was), at this juncture in time Glenn was fairly certain that _neither_ man deserved Sasha.

"Can you two please, just stop it?" Glenn snapped. His head was throbbing, his mind still racing. He had a preacher furious at him, a teenage girl in tears, and the woman who had previously only seemed interested in what was beneath his trousers had just publicly declared her love for him. He wanted a shot of whisky, he wanted to fall asleep, but most of all, he just wanted some damn peace and quiet.

"I ain't even talking," Daryl groused, turning surprised eyes on Glenn.

"It's because you know you don't have a leg to stand on," Theodore sat down on his low cot, the mattress groaning beneath his bulk, and glared across the room. Daryl glowered right on back. Glenn rolled his eyes.

"Just 'cause the two of you are the same color don't mean she's gotta want you," Daryl countered. "Look at Rick and Michonne—"

Glenn let out a frustrated groan that drew both men's attention immediately. He was at the end of his rope with these two. He had half a mind to get up, march back to the big house, and demand to sleep on the floor in Michonne's bedroom. Instead, he spoke up. "First of all, don't compare you and Sasha to Rick and Michonne," Glenn pointed at Daryl. "Neither of you are anywhere close to that." He gestured between the two men. "Rick wasn't sitting around, trying to impress her like they're 12 years old. Michonne _chose_ him." Both men looked flabbergasted by his outburst. Glenn pressed his advantage. "It doesn't matter how much you argue, Sasha doesn't seem to have any interest in either of you." Glenn was absolutely sure of this. Maggie and Sasha had forged a bond, being the only two young women of that age. Maggie often talked about Sasha when she was alone with Glenn. Sasha had many things on her mind, but a romantic dalliance did not seem to be one of them.

The men looked somewhat chastised, but not enough to quit completely. "Don't you have something of your own to be worrying about?" Theodore asked him, clearly beginning to sulk.

"I do," Glenn confirmed. "And I'd like to do it without hearing you two squabbling like a married couple."

A silence stretched between them. Glenn laid down, satisfied, his point made. The thin blanket on his cot was too bare to fully stave off the cold that had seeped into his skin during the earlier confrontation. He shivered, contemplating getting up to start a fire in the grate in the center of the room.

Daryl watched him for a moment, light eyes narrow. Without a word, he rose, tossing logs almost carelessly into the fire pit before lighting the stove. In moments, their room began to fill with warmth.

"Thanks," Glenn said, surprised. Theodore wore a similar expression.

With a grunt, Daryl returned to his cot.

"So," Theodore ventured at conversation. "How long have you and Miss Maggie…been getting acquainted?"

Glenn looked over at him. In truth, he wasn't sure. Maggie first kissed him weeks ago in her father's farmhouse, out of sight of Morgan. One thing had led to another, and before he knew it, her skirt was up over her waist and he was between her legs. She straightened herself out when they were done as though they hadn't just gotten to know one another in the Biblical sense. She avoided him for three days before cornering him again behind Rick's barn, then two days later in the wagon. He had tried for weeks to get her to speak on the nature of their relationship, but Maggie was content to talk about anything else. Glenn knew about her mother, her sister, her father and his fondness in the past for alcohol. He knew about the suitors her father tried to fix her up with, about her desire one day to be a school teacher, to travel this country. She thrilled at his tales of war, at the recollections of his time as a spy, of the time he helped Michonne lead half a hundred people away from a Mississippi plantation. All the while, Glenn enjoyed their conversation, and certainly their coupling, but he wondered what kind of woman he had begun to develop feelings for.

"A few weeks," Glenn settled on this answer.

Daryl let out a small snort. "I thought you would have been fixed up with Michonne," he said. "You guys seem mighty close."

Daryl was not the only one to draw this conclusion. If Glenn had been a betting man, he would guess that Rick had assumed the same at first. Michonne had that effect on men, whether she knew it or now. "She's my sister." He explained. They were bonded in a way that Glenn could not possibly explain to a third party. After years alone in this cold nation, Michonne and her mother had given Glenn the family he had lost.

"You think Rick Grimes is serious about Michonne?" Theodore asked.

"Very," Glenn did not hesitate. It was strange to hear Michonne, normally so reserved, bemoan the absence of physical intimacy in her newfound relationship. Rick possessed a sense of chivalry that was commendable. Glenn only had the self-control to resist Maggie for a few minutes at a time.

"How do you figure?" Daryl asked. It seemed that he and Theodore had found common ground in their curiosity. Glenn indulged them, happy that the subject had turned away from their own dramatics.

"He treats Michonne like a queen. Not sure if you all have noticed, but there's not many white men in this country that even treat colored folks like people, let alone like equals." Glenn couldn't quite disguise the disgust in his voice, nor did he try. He had seen many things in his 20 or so years of life, and very few of them gave him faith in humanity. Theodore nodded sagely, raising a brow at Daryl as though to suggest that his point had been made.

Daryl flushed bright red. "I'd never treat Sasha like she ain't my equal," he insisted.

"She _ain't_ your equal," Theodore was quick to counter. "She's better than you."

Daryl looked ready to fight, but Glenn cut him off. "You have to admit, you didn't meet us under the best circumstances," he reminded Daryl.

Daryl quieted at that. "I never wanted to do none of that stuff. None of it," he imparted.

"Didn't seem that way," Theodore said. "Especially when you were hunting us down in the forest."

"You don't know what my brother was like," Daryl said, eyes falling to the floor. "You don't know how Merle was."

"Yes I do," Theodore shook his head. "There's plenty of white men just like your brother and I know them all too well." Theodore laid down, suddenly exhausted. "And so does Sasha," he added.

Daryl processed this in his usual solemn silence, all three men slipping into reminiscences that Glenn would have much preferred to leave in the past. Sometimes, on this farm, with Rick and Maggie treating him the way they did…it was almost enough to believe that the world was something new. But it was too much to hope that all of the Merle's of this earth were dead.

"I ain't my brother," Daryl said at last.

"You're going to have to prove that," Theodore said flatly.

Glenn could not say that he disagreed with the sentiment.

The discussion came to an abrupt end at the sound of horses galloping just outside the cabin. In seconds, all three of them were on their feet, shoving on their boots, rushing outside.

"The hell is it now?" Daryl grumbled, crossbow in hand. Two mares were running wildly for the barn, passing the cabins in a flurry. Glenn reached out to steady them, grateful for all the equine lessons Michonne and her mama had given him in the past as he soothed the spooked animals.

"Michonne and Rick took those horses," Glenn said, fear arresting him. "C'mon," he smacked Daryl in the arm. They might need to be able to strike from a distance. "Theodore, go make sure everyone at the house is all right."

"I'll let them know," Theodore's anger was forgotten. He turned and ran for the house.

Glenn grabbed the reigns of the nearest horse. "Can you ride?" he asked Daryl.

"I can," Daryl grabbed the reigns of the other horse.

"Then let's go," Glenn swung up, riding hard towards his friend.

-l-l-l-l-

"Michonne!" Rick called to her, watching her back as a walker ambled towards her.

She ducked, swiping at the dead's legs, sending it tumbling backwards like a tree being uprooted. Rick finished it quickly before throwing his hatchet at another of the dead approaching. Michonne yanked his weapon out by the handle, tossing it back to him as she swung her sword above both of them, decapitating another two walkers. She pressed her back against Rick's, weapon extended.

"We need to close the gap," Rick told her. They'd been fighting for nearly ten minutes now as a steady stream of the dead came in. Their horses were gone, lost to a panic as they took off for the house. They were quickly losing light, the last of the sun's rays disappearing far off in the west. They needed to solve the issue before darkness fell.

"How do we get there?" Michonne kicked at another walker, sending it toppling backwards. Rick braced her. There were at least a dozen more inside the property, and countless more outside of it.

"Camouflage?" he suggested, lobbying off part of a walker's head.

"No time," Michonne argued. They were coming now, circling around the couple.

"Ok," Rick took a breath, willing himself to remain calm. "We're going to push through."

"What?" Michonne's locs hit him in the face as she whirled her head at him.

"Stay close to me," he instructed, knocking two or three back with a mighty shove. He took off, one arm on Michonne, rushing for the fence.

She was half a step behind him, clearing the path of any of the dead giving chase. They reached the fence after a mad dash. Rick immediately went to his knees, lifting the heavy piece of wood that had once kept the walkers outside. Michonne stood above him, slicing her sword in wide arcs, sending pieces of their enemies skittering away from them.

"This was cut," even in the dark, Rick could see the tell-tell signs of an axe. The wood was all splintered, hacked apart amateurishly.

"Just put it back," Michonne instructed breathlessly. "We can look at it later."

He set about obeying her, muscling the log back into its holding. It slipped from his gore-covered hands. Quickly, he bent to pick it back up, trying to ignore the sensation of dead fingers clawing at his back. With a shout, Michonne removed the threat, replacing their hands with her own. She pushed at him, helping him to roll the wood closer into place. From the other side of the fence, the walkers swarmed, shoving them back.

Rick dug in, angling his body so that Michonne was behind him. He wasn't sure how long he could sustain, his energy spent from a long day of farm work.

"Michonne, run back to the house," he pled with her, grunting under the weight.

In answer, she joined him, working her hands beneath the log, adding her strength. "Just push on three," she instructed instead. "As hard as you can. 1, 2…"

"3," Rick called out, groaning with the effort. Michonne let out a strained yell to match his. He sent up a prayer as his muscles strained.

Miraculously, the log rolled into place. Michonne collapsed against her, her body sweat-drenched and shaking. Rick used his last bit of energy to pull her backwards, propelling them a few feet away from the dead. They were still clamoring, pushing, seeking to undo the work that he and Michonne had just accomplished. Rick realized in one terrifying moment that neither he nor Michonne had the strength to fight them.

The sound of horses hooves in the background nearly caused him to collapse in relief. He could hear the now-familiar thrum of Daryl's crossbow, Glenn's shouts as he dismounted, knife in hand. With a yell, the pair fell upon what remained of the walkers.

Michonne let out a gasping breath. "Thank God," she said. Her body went lax against his and she let her head fall into his chest. Rick watched Glenn and Daryl clear the rest of the field, holding Michonne close to him.

"We're ok," he murmured to her, pushing her locs back from her forehead. God must have been fond of them. Death seemed to circle endlessly, but they fought it off every time.

"I know," she smiled at him through her exhaustion. Her heart was thumping against his chest, light and quick. Rick rubbed her back, unable to resist touching her. Michonne did not seem to mind. With lightning fast precision, she threw her arms over his shoulders and kissed him.

He fell backwards into the grass, taking Michonne with him. She collapsed atop him, apparently unconcerned with their audience as she showered him with affection. Rick kissed back just as fervently, desperate for the taste of her.

"Michonne," he groaned her name against her lips, his blood pumping hard again.

"Yes," she whispered the word suddenly in his ears in answer.

He pulled back to look at her, needing confirmation, adrenaline surging through him like they hadn't just fought a battle. "Yes?" he questioned, daring for a moment to be hopeful.

She nodded, smiling again. "Yes."

This time it was he who kissed her, crushing her body to his. She let out a delighted squeal, threading her hands in his hair.

From somewhere above them, Glenn cleared his throat. Rick and Michonne broke apart, breathless but grinning. Daryl and Glenn were looking down at them, vaguely amused but mostly uncomfortable.

"Are you finished?" Glenn asked.

"For now," it was Michonne who answered without a trace of apology. She stood up, reaching down to drag Rick up beside her. He kept ahold of her hand.

Daryl coughed awkwardly, gesturing to the fence. "Someone hacked that all to pieces," he announced.

"I know," Rick tried with difficulty to bring his mind back to the subject at hand. Michonne's presence was beyond distracting. "With an axe it looks like."

"Or a saber," Daryl suggested. "Something sharp, but without a lot of control." His mind was clearly racing, his brow furrowed.

Michonne watched him, glancing at Rick before speaking. "Daryl, what are you thinking?"

Daryl considered this, sucking his teeth. "I need to look around, before the trail runs cold."

"I'll go too," Glenn spoke up immediately.

"I'll be faster alone," Daryl argued.

"No chance," Glenn shot the idea down immediately. "We need a lantern though."

"No," Daryl quickly protested. "Better it be dark. You got your knife?" he asked Glenn.

Glenn nodded. "Let's go."

"Be careful," Michonne called after them.

"I should go too," Rick sighed. He kissed Michonne on the cheek.

"I'll come," she told him, attempting to join the scouting party.

"They're going to be worried at the house," Rick reasoned with her. "Someone needs to hold down the fort."

Reluctantly, Michonne nodded her head. She hugged him again, kissing him quickly. "Hurry back," she whispered urgently.

"I promise," he assured her.

The men waited, Daryl shuffling restlessly as Michonne took off towards the house, leading the second horse behind her. She only turned in the saddle to look at back at him once.

"Ready?" Daryl prompted.

"Yeah," Rick mustered what remained of his strength, following Glenn and Daryl into the forest beyond the fence.

-l-l-l-l-

Michonne reached the barn, leading the animals in, trying to ignore her misgivings. She should have gone with them. The thought haunted her, swirling inside, tainting the joy of having survived the fight, the elation of thoughts of a future with Rick.

Someone had sabotaged the fence, that much was clear. That someone could already be heading towards the house, towards Carl and Judith and Duane. It was the only thing that kept her here, instead of riding as hard as she could for Rick.

"It's going to be fine," she whispered to herself, willing herself to believe it.

She looked out into the darkness one more time, gripping her sword, waiting.


	17. Patience

**A/N: You get a longer chapter this time, for all your patience and wonderful feedback. Hopefully this one will satisfy you for a while ;)**

* * *

Michonne wandered the house restlessly, peering out of the window every few minutes. The horses were stabled and all was quiet outside. It did nothing to soothe her unease. She was not alone in her sentiment. Carl was stationed in her room, refusing to leave her side. The young boy was carrying his father's rifle, an expression of resigned duty on his face. He looked very much the part of a miniature soldier. Michonne found that she did not care much for the sight.

"Carl," she called to him, wondering if she could coax him into putting the rifle down. He and Duane were far too mature for their ages, far too serious, two boys without mothers. Duane had taken a shine to Carol, helping her with daily tasks, thinking of names for the baby. His presence did something to the timid woman, brought out a part of her personality that Michonne wasn't sure Carol was even aware existed. Michonne was happy for it, but still wished there was more time for play for the children, and less for weapons training.

"Why don't you get a book, and we can read together?" Michonne asked Carl. Judith loved stories, and Carl was often all too willing to read them to her. Tonight though, he was less enthusiastic about the prospect.

Instead, he sat at the foot of her bed beside her, looking at her seriously. "May I ask you something?" he ventured.

"Of course," Michonne braced herself.

Carl took a breath. "Are you in love with my dad?"

"I am," Michonne settled on the simple truth. It felt odd to proclaim this out loud. She and Rick had scarcely had time to discuss it. Affection had grown between them without her ever intending it. It was like falling with no hope of ever hitting the bottom. She wondered if the feelings of weightlessness would ever subside or if loving Rick would always leave her breathless.

Carl processed Michonne's answer, nodding seriously. "If you love him, then why did you leave him out there?"

The question, asked innocently, felt liable to crush her. Michonne stared down at the boy beside her, taking in Carl's face. His expressions were so like his father's, but there was something else there too. Michonne wondered about Carl's mother, about what Lori looked like. Was this her anger playing out on her son's face?

"He asked me to go home to you," Michonne used the tone she assumed when she led others to freedom, the authoritative voice that normally silenced misgivings. Truthfully, she was restless. She had done everything in her power to secure the farm: guards were posted; the occupants were informed and armed. There was nothing now to do but wait. Waiting was not her strong suit.

Carl did not look fooled. "Judith and I are fine. All the rest of the adults are here." His eyes burned into her, half covered by his long brown hair. "It's only dangerous outside."

Michonne wished that was the truth, but was in no hurry to scare a child of his own home. "Carl," Michonne began again, "Your father asked me to come home."

"You don't listen to him," Carl objected, trying to understand. "And you _never_ leave him alone. Dad told me how you chased him into the church when he asked you not to."

Her stomach clenched. Obviously Rick and Carl discussed her when she was not around. The thought was simultaneously elating and terrifying. "He's not alone. Glenn and Daryl are with him." Michonne trusted Glenn with her life.

Carl stared at her, appraising. "I wish you were out there with him," he said at last. His voice warbled, betraying his emotions for the first time. "You could protect him." All at once the façade crumbled and he was a little boy, trembling and afraid.

Michonne moved forward immediately, wrapping him in her arms. "Shush," she rocked him as his body shook with tears. He was young, so young, despite his maturity. She wanted to take that weight away from him, to give him the childhood that every child deserved. "Your father is strong," Michonne reminded him. "He will be back."

"He always goes away," Carl hiccupped into her chest. "I'm never sure if he's coming back." He hugged her back, squeezing her tightly.

"I can't promise that he will always come back," Michonne admitted, her heart heavy, "But I do know that your father will always fight to make it back to you. He did it before and he will do it again." Not even a war had kept Rick from his children, or his wife's infidelity, or a horde of the dead.

Carl's sobs continued, his fingers digging into her arm. "If he dies, Judith and I will be alone."

"You won't," Michonne crushed him against her, kneeling down to look him in the eyes. "I will be here, and I'm not going anywhere." She cupped his face between her hands, willing him to believe her.

He nodded, his chin warbling. "You promise?"

"I promise," she did not hesitate.

"And you'll protect dad?" he added, worry written on his face.

"Of course." She'd been protecting Rick before she even knew why. "How about this," Michonne sought to comfort Carl. "If he's not back in an hour, I will go get him myself." She smiled what she hoped was a winning grin.

Carl looked consoled, if only marginally. He wiped his eyes, suddenly embarrassed at his show of emotion. "All right," he said, lifting his chin.

Michonne refused to relinquish her hold on him. "Where's Judith?" she asked.

"With Beth," Carl answered. "She didn't want to be alone."

"Why don't you go get her?" Michonne suggested. "You can both wait with me."

Carl beat a hasty escape from the room, returning in moments with Judith. Michonne sat on the mattress of the bed, patting the space next to her. They eagerly clambered up, joining her against the headboard. Michonne was reminded of their first meeting, of waking up in a strange house, in a strange bed, in strange clothing, looking at strange children.

"Miss Michonne," Judith settled in beside her, smoothing the fabric of her miniature dressing gown like a little lady. "Is Daddy going to come home and join us?" she yawned, laying her head down against Michonne's leg, hugging it to her like a teddy bear.

"He will be back soon," Michonne assured her. "I miss him too."

"Is that because you love him?" Judith asked, eyes wide open and trained on Michonne's face.

"Judy…" Carl sounded exasperated, but he looked at Michonne as well.

"I do," Michonne told them, offering a smile.

"You should marry him then," Judith said.

"You should," Carl added quickly, lying down beside her.

Michonne let out an amused little chuckle. "Mayhaps I will," she told them.

"Oh good," Judith sighed, closing her eyes. "You'll be our mama then."

Carl said nothing, but curled to Michonne's side. Slowly, the children began to lose the fight against sleep, drifting off. Michonne sat up, mind racing, staring out the small bedroom window, counting the minutes.

-l-l-l-l-

"It's him," Daryl said, no trace of uncertainty in his voice.

Rick squinted in the darkness. He could barely see a foot in front of him, but Daryl seemed to glean some sort of knowledge from the damp mud and brush beneath their feet. "You sure?" he asked, kneeling to look closer. Someone had been here, certainly, but there was no telling from a footprint.

"I'm sure," Daryl spat. Beside him, Glenn wrinkled his nose.

"I thought you killed him," Glenn looked towards Rick instead.

"Cut his damn hand off," Rick recounted, straightening up. "Don't see how no one could survive that, not with a herd of the dead coming down on them."

"If anyone could, it's my brother," Daryl kicked at the leaves, his crossbow draped over one arm. He looked out into the distance, as though he expected to see Merle lurking somewhere among the trees.

"Just so we're clear, you think your brother got his hand chopped off, didn't bleed out, survived a herd, managed to not get killed or die of starvation for a few months, and now he's running around here, trying to kill us?" Glenn ticked these off on his fingers.

"I do," Daryl turned to Glenn, as though daring him to contradict him.

"All right," Glenn sighed. There was a moment's pause. "So we kill him, for good this time," he said.

Rick looked at Daryl, searching for some sign of protest. "I don't think there's another option," Rick said. He should have hit him over the head with the hatchet months back. Everything had moved so quickly then, that he'd honestly forgotten to go check for Merle's body. Rick had a pressing urge to get home, to make sure that his family was all right.

Daryl simply nodded, tight lipped. "He'll be back," he said at last. "No point looking for him in the dark, not when he's got the upper hand."

"He only has _one_ hand," Glenn insisted. "Let's get him now."

Rick was of half a mind to agree. Still, he didn't much like the idea of being caught unawares in the dark. He was exhausted already, his energy running dangerously low.

"We'll set a guard," Rick decided. "He won't go far."

"How do you know?" Glenn was restless.

"He wants revenge," Rick said. "He'll be back. We'll be ready."

The two men fell in step behind him, their footsteps squishing into the soft forest floor. There was still much to prepare for before winter. He had Carol and Beth working on sewing more blankets. The cabins needed to be caulked once more, to ensure that no air could get through the cracks. They needed to check all of the perimeter fences again, and building a lookout wasn't a half bad idea. He was exhausted just thinking about it.

"You think we can trust him?" Glenn pulled Rick aside as they approached the house. Daryl had disappeared already towards the cabins, clearly lost in thought. The walk home had been a silent, tense affair.

"One way to find out," Rick said. He wasn't sure about much these days.

"He could be helping him," Glenn pointed out. "Playing both sides."

"Says the spy," Rick couldn't resist the opportunity for a dig. Glenn took it in stride.

"You know what men like Merle are like. You know the families they come from. You think Daryl managed to not inherit all of that?" Glenn questioned.

"We give him a chance," Rick said. He'd decided to give Daryl an opportunity for redemption months ago, the moment that Daryl helped Michonne get into that church. "But we watch him," Rick added.

Glenn nodded, satisfied. "Can I ask you something else?" Glenn began nervously.

"Sure," Rick suspected where Glenn's question might be leading, but he was curious nonetheless.

"Michonne," Glenn started. "Do you love her?"

"I do." Rick thought it was fairly obvious. Still, he humored the young man.

"And you just….knew? Was it something she said, or did, or was it when you kissed—" Glenn was getting frantic now.

"Glenn," Rick cut him off as kindly as he could. "Do you love Maggie?"

Glenn blanched, his tan skin running pale in the lantern light of the porch. "I think I might."

"Mayhaps you talk to _her_ about it then," Rick suggested.

"I don't think Hershel is going to let me anywhere near her," Glenn looked longingly in the direction of the cabins.

Rick clapped him on the back bracingly. "You're a spy," he reminded Glenn. "I'm sure you'll figure it out."

He left the bewildered man standing on the porch. The house was quiet, everyone in bed. Rick looked in on Carol, realizing with a start that Sasha was now sharing the room that Morgan and the men had vacated. His mind immediately went to Michonne, presumably alone in the master bedroom. When he found his children's beds empty, he followed his instinct; his feet were beating a path to her before he could think too much on it.

The door was unlocked, and he pushed on it gently, swinging it open as quietly as possible. The sight in front of him almost stopped his heart. Michonne was lying in the center, eyes closed, Judith and Carl tucked into her side. His children were clutching her like she was a lifeline. He paused, willing himself to remember every detail: Judith's cheek smashed against Michonne's leg, the way Carl's hand draped across Michonne's stomach, the rhythmic rise and fall of their chests.

"Rick," Michonne blinked herself wide awake. Her dark eyes focused in on him immediately, a smile coming to her face. She was dressed in one of his old shirts and trousers. Both were far too large for her, hanging loosely over her frame.

"Daddy?" Judith was up next, scrambling to get out of the bed. Rick crossed, swooping his daughter up into his arms. He kissed her head, then Carl's. His son glanced up at him.

"You shouldn't go off in the dark alone," he said reproachfully, voice heavy with sleep.

Rick chuckled. "I wasn't alone," he assured Carl.

"That's what I said," Michonne yawned, reaching over to ruffle Carl's long hair affectionately.

"I just had to check on something, son," Rick reassured him. "I'm back now."

"Don't leave again," Judith begged, wrapping her legs around him tightly, holding on.

"I won't," he promised. His eyes fells to Michonne. She stared up at him, her expression unreadable. "You two run on down to your beds," Rick told his children. "I need to have a word with Michonne."

"About getting married?" Judith asked slyly.

Rick blinked in surprise. Michonne held up her hands. "I didn't say anything," she told him.

Carl grinned. "We figured it out by ourselves," he said proudly. He kissed Michonne on the cheek before standing up, coming to take his sister from his father. "Good night," he told them both. "Say 'goodnight' Judith," he told his sister.

"Goodnight," Judith called, allowing herself to be held by her brother. She blew kisses as the exited the room, the door clicking softly behind them.

Michonne reached for Rick immediately once they were alone, relief clear on her face. "I couldn't sleep," she told him. "I was waiting for you."

The statement set his blood pumping, his affection for her ratcheting up. Rick swallowed thickly, attempting to steady himself. "I'm all right," he assured her. He sat beside her, listening to the mattress groan beneath them. Michonne scooted closer to him, pressing against his side. She was warm against him, chasing off the cold still clinging to him.

"What did you find?" she asked. She smoothed a hand through his hair, pushing back his messy curls.

"Daryl thinks it's Merle on the loose out there," it was difficult to think about the situation at all, not when Michonne was here, painfully close to him. His mind rushed back to their relationship, to the fact that she had agreed to marry him. In another world, there would be time for celebrating, for writing their relatives. He would save up for a ring, she for a lace dress. There would be a party to plan. He mourned for that world for just a moment, wishing that he could give Michonne all of those things.

"Merle?" she scoffed, bringing him back to the present, her facial expression making her disgust clear.

"Might be," Rick leaned closer to her, drawing comfort from her. He laid his head against her shoulder. He was exhausted, tired of scheming and planning, tired of fighting. He let his hand fall down her body, settling at her waist. Under his arm, Michonne took a sudden, gasping breath.

"Rick," his name was just a whisper, deep and throaty. Rick's control splintered around it.

"Can I stay?" he asked her, his hand tightening around her hips.

"Yes," her answer was immediate, all thoughts of Merle gone. "Please…"

He relinquished his hold on her for the briefest of moments, getting up to lock the door. He turned the bolt, shutting out the world for just a night. She was on him the second the lock clicked. He caught her, lifting her up. For all of her strength, she was surprisingly light. Unlike the first time he carried her into this house, Rick took no pains to watch his hand placement. He filled his palms with her curves. She gasped again as he carried her, backing her up towards the bed. Her hair sprawled behind her as he laid her down, taking a moment to just look at her. Half of him was in disbelief that soon, (very soon if he had his way) he'd be sharing this bed with her nightly, waking up to her beautiful face first thing in the morning.

"Rick," she called his name again, uncertain.

He bent over her, wanting to erase that uncertainty permanently. Her breathing hitched as he settled over her, providing the barest of contact. He pressed his forehead to hers. "Michonne," he hummed her name out, watching her arch beneath him.

"Rick," she squirmed. "Please." Her hands came up to his head, curling into his hair. She attempted to pull him down. Rick obliged, trailing his lips along her chin.

"What do you need?" he asked her.

She let out a plaintive sound, halfway between a whine and a moan. "Make me yours," she begged him. She rolled her hips upward.

He wavered for a moment, nearly losing the strength to hold himself up. "I will," he assured her, his mind racing with just the thought of it. "Soon."

"Now," she countered, pleading. "No more waiting, I can't," she sounded as though she was on the verge of tears. "I love you, plea—"

He cut her off, silencing her with his lips. She gasped for breath and her pressed his advantage, kissing her deeply, tongue sweeping, the way he'd been desperate to for months now. He levered himself over her, enjoying the sensation of her rolling upwards into him. Only two thin layers of clothing stopping him from feeling all of her. He calmed himself, mentally coaxing himself into taking his time, into showering her with the affection she deserved. Michonne arched further, pressing her chest into him, her hands scrambling along his back. He pulled her up, flattening his palms to slide down her back. She moaned outright when he grasped her round bottom. Unable to resist, he pushed his hips into hers.

"Please," she muttered again, nipping at his neck when he broke their kiss. He allowed himself the pleasure of her affections for a moment, taking deep breaths, trying to steady himself.

"Lay back, love," he whispered to her, kissing her again.

-l-l-l-l-

Rick was trying to kill her, Michonne was sure of it. Her body had ceased to be her own from the moment he had laid her on the bed. It was exquisite torture, sensations running through her that she had never felt before, that she did not think she would believe if someone had ever tried to explain them to her. She needed more; her body was crying out for more, like being underwater too long and burning for air. She had no idea how she was expected to contain herself. Her skin was heating up, like fire ran through her veins instead of blood.

And still, Rick would not end her torture.

Somewhere, deep in the recesses of her mind, she appreciated this, him taking his time, of wanting to do things the traditional way. She wanted that, a proper wedding with vows before God. But Lord help her, she wanted _this_ too. She could feel Rick, all of him, thick and heavy and impossibly hot against her. She took another gasping breath, trying to regain logical thought. She reached down, dragging her fingers from their place in Rick's hair down his body. He caught her as she passed his lips, dropping a kiss on her hand before allowing her to continue. She could feel the corded muscles of his body, wound tight. They flexed even more when she reached his waist. She fumbled for a moment, unsure, inexperienced. He caught her hand again.

"You don't have to," he whispered in her ear, sucking lightly at the lobe.

"I want to," she had never wanted anything so badly.

Nodding, he guided her, assisting her. He shuddered as her palm closed around him, groaning into her neck. "I love you," he told her, pulling her tighter against him.

She squeezed and was rewarded with another groan. She was comforted to find that he was as unhinged as she was in this moment, that he desired her the way she desired him. Her relief was short lived when he returned her affections, working her trousers down over her hips before cupping her. And inhuman sound escaped her as his fingers closed in on her, but she didn't have the wherewithal to be embarrassed.

"Shh," he cautioned, a laugh evident in his voice. He disengaged, sitting up to tug his shirt over his head. She sat up as well, shivering against him. Slowly, he pulled the shirt she had borrowed from him over her hair, taking care to not tug at her locs. His eyes fell to her immediately, his expression going almost slack. "Beautiful," he exhaled the word reverently.

Gently, he coaxed her to lie beneath him. Nerves seized her. She was far out of her depth, treading in new waters. Rick kissed her again.

"I'm ready," she told him, voice wavering.

Rick paused, pushing her hair back from her face. He stared at her for a long moment before bowing his back, kissing her on her lips before continuing his descent. Her nervousness evaporated, transforming into a pleasure so white hot that she was forced to bite her lip from crying out. He laved at her, sucking and kissing every inch he could reach until she was trembling beneath him. Just when she thought she had grown accustomed to one sensation, he would change course, sending her reeling once again.

When his mouth replaced his hands, touching her where no one else had, she lost all sanity completely. It was like being thrown from a horse, being hit by a shell, the adrenaline of a thousand fights all concentrated into one sensation. She tugged at his hair, holding on for dear life, doing her best to not scream out loud. The sounds he was making further increased her fervor. In all her life, she could not imagine something feeling this good. He let her go for a moment, crawling back up her body until he could kiss her lips once again, his hands resuming their work. Her body wound tighter, her back arching, her toes curling.

"C'mon," he coaxed into her ear, his breath a warm whisper. "Let go, love."

She shattered. He swallowed her cries with more kisses, holding her body against his until she could stop shaking. She clung to him. Rick ran his hand up and down her back, soothing her.

"You made me wait, and the all that time you knew how to do _that_?" she summoned just enough strength to chastise him, even as her body began to succumb to the pull of sleep.

He laughed, the sound bringing her joy too, the vibrations resonating through her. "Just wait 'till we're married," he kissed the crown of her head. "I'll show you what other things I know."

"Don't make me wait too long," she told him, smiling.

"Patience," he scolded. He reached over her, pulling up the thick quilt.

"Will you stay with me?" she asked. She knew there might be talk in the morning, but she found she did not much care. Life was too short to deny herself this happiness ever again.

"Always," he promised, lying beside her. With a sigh, he draped an arm around her hips, shutting his eyes.

With that happy thought, Michonne gave in, curling up beneath the covers with Rick.


	18. Preparations

**A/N: Thank you, thank you so much for all of the positive feedback! I've overwhelmed (in the best way) from the response to this story and so humbled that you all feel so moved to share your opinions with me.**

 **I hope you enjoy this next chapter!**

* * *

"Michonne," Rick called her name softly, kissing her along the hairline. Her face was buried in the pillow, her arm draped over his chest, her skin still bare and beautiful in dark of the bedroom. The sky outside was an inky indigo, the first signs of light just beginning to creep over the horizon. Rick had been lying awake for nearly ten minutes, content to bask in silence. He could not recall the last time he had slept so soundly. He studied his soon-to-be-wife, running his hand over the expanse of her back. She sighed in her sleep, rolling closer to him. He repeated her name, louder this time.

"G'morning," she mumbled, blinking sleepily at him. Her hair fell into her face, shielding her from him. Rick pushed it back, smiling at her.

"I'm going to get up," he whispered to her reluctantly. The rest of the farm would be awake in an hour or so, ready to start the day. "I want to check the perimeter, see if anything changed."

Michonne nodded, yawning. "No one reported in last night?" she asked.

"No one knew to find me here," Rick reminded her. He felt a slight pang of guilt, but it was fleeting. Morgan, Sasha, and Glenn were just as capable at decision making as he was.

"What do you think they're going to say when they find out?" Michonne stretched against him. Rick pulled her closer, wrapping an arm around her.

"We're going to be married soon," Rick shrugged. "There's not too much they can say." Hershel would probably have thoughts about it, but Rick doubted his friend would be willing to express them after what had transpired with Maggie. "Besides," he added. "We're the least dramatic couple here."

Michonne snorted, laughing quietly. Her hand reached up to tug at his curls. Rick let his head lull forward, relishing the sensation. She giggled again. "Speaking of getting married…" she ventured.

"I thought we could talk to Hershel today," Rick said, lying down beside her again. "If you wanted to," he amended.

She smiled at him, grinning brilliantly. "I want to," she said. Rick found himself smiling back. She scooted forward, pressing her chest against him. Rick held her for a moment, already anticipating a lifetime of mornings beginning this way. "We have to get up, don't we?" Michonne asked on a sigh a moment later.

"We do," Rick said, still not moving.

With another deep exhale, Michonne sat up, the blanket falling to her waist, her locs swinging free. Rick's resolve to leave bed began to crumble at an alarming rate. "It's cold this morning," she announced, her skin pebbling as she disengaged from their shared warmth.

All of the blood in Rick's body made a sudden and urgent rush downward, dizzying him. In the dark of night, self-control was simpler. He was not prepared to be met with the sight of her nude form lounging beneath his covers. She stretched her arms over her head, her muscles flexing, her back arching, unabashed. The image was captivating, all-too enticing, especially with the addition of the knowledge he gained the night before. He knew the smoothness of her skin, the sound of her gasps, the taste of her, the smell of her. He needed to marry her, and soon, before his attempts at chivalry killed him.

Rick all but leapt from the bed, tripping over the blanket still tangled around him.

"Are you all right?" she asked tentatively, confusion on her lovely face. Rick straightened himself out, shaking the blankets loose, attempting to regain his composure. Michonne's eyes dropped from his face to his waist. He still had his trousers on, but they did little to conceal his predicament. Almost immediately, Michonne began to laugh. "Oh," she said simply, guffawing.

"Funny," he teased but grinned, enjoying the sound of her merriment. "It's your fault, you know," he adjusted his pants. She let out an unladylike snort, laughing through her hands. Rick shook his head, busying himself with retrieving his shirt from where it had fallen to the floor, mentally running through his list of tasks for the day. He needed to get back on track or he would never make it out of this bedroom.

Michonne watched him, her amusement subsiding little by little. Rick chanced a glance back at her. There was a hunger in her eyes that he instantly recognized. "You know, we could…" she began, letting the blanket drop further.

"Soon," he reiterated, catching the fabric. He bent to kiss her softly. She tugged at his hair, holding him against her for a moment.

"All right," she agreed, releasing him.

They dressed in comfortable silence, stealing occasional glances at one another. Michonne wore a small, secretive smile. Its presence spiked Rick's ego. He knew already that she would be on his mind all day.

"Ready?" he asked, reaching for her.

She finished pushing her feet into her boots. She was back in her trousers and shirts, a warmer ensemble for the rapidly cooling weather. "Ready," she said, taking his hand. Rick kissed it before pushing the door open.

Glenn, Morgan, and Sasha were leaning against the wall just outside, wearing matching, knowing expressions. Glenn was holding a basket of apples, Sasha a rifle, and Morgan his staff. All three were dressed and far too amused.

"Morning," Glenn announced too brightly, his eyes going to Michonne immediately. "Sleep well?" He took a bite of an apple, cocking his brow.

Rick felt his face flush immediately, but Michonne only smiled.

"Very," she said lightly, winking at Glenn. She procured an apple from her friend's hand.

"What are you all doing here?" Rick swallowed his embarrassment, shaking his head.

"We finished our guard. Daryl, Tyreese, and Theo took over," Sasha said, doing nothing to disguise her grin. "We thought we'd report in to Michonne. We didn't expect to find you here." She too, took a bite of her breakfast, crunching at the fruit.

Sighing, Rick resigned himself to announcing his business in the hallway. "Michonne and I had to talk about our wedding," he said.

The response was instantaneous. Morgan was the first to smile, moving forward to hug Rick warmly.

"Congratulations, friend," he patted him on the back. Rick released Michonne's hand to return his affections. The others followed suit, loudly remarking until the whole of the house was awake. Carl and Judith emerged sleepily from their bedroom. Carol and Duane came up the stairs, peeking curiously at the group.

"Who's getting married?" Carol asked.

"These two love birds," Sasha was all too happy to respond.

"Married!" Judith yelled, her excitement growing by the moment. Carl hushed her, but was smiling just as widely.

Rick's plans for a productive morning slipped away in an instant. Michonne looked similarly overwhelmed beside him. Rick took a step closer to her.

"When are you jumping the broom?" Sasha asked eagerly.

"We wanted to talk to Hershel today…" Michonne answered.

She may as well have set off gun powder. "Today?" Glenn asked in disbelief. "Were you even going to tell us, or just tie the knot?"

"Of course we were going to tell you," Michonne said patiently.

"When?" Sasha asked. All the eyes turned to them at once, in various states of judgement.

"After we checked the perimeter," Rick answered, holding in a sigh. "But ya'll ambushed us out here."

"Na-uh," Sasha protested. She stepped forward, wresting Michonne away from Rick. "You're not working on your wedding day," Sasha told Michonne in a sure tone. "C'mon," she began to drag Michonne away. "Glenn, go see if Beth finished that dress," Sasha called to him.

"On it," Glenn hefted the basket of apples into Rick's arms, sprinting for the stairs. He was gone before either of the betrothed could even register what was happening.

"Someone has to secure the fence…" Michonne protested. "And we haven't asked Hershel."

Morgan waved her off. "Your fiancé and I can handle it," he assured her. "Go on and get ready for your big day.

Michonne shot Rick a bemused look as she was escorted firmly back into the bedroom they would soon share. Judith and Carol hastened to join them. Rick waved, wondering how his family had managed to steal his fiancée from him in less than five minutes. The door shut with a firm click, leaving Rick standing alone with Morgan in the hallway, still holding the apples.

"So _I_ have to work my wedding day?" Rick said jokingly, retrieving an apple for himself.

"It's your second wedding," Morgan didn't miss a beat. "Let's go look at this fence."

"I'll meet you out there," Rick told him, looking at Carl. His son was waiting by the door of his bedroom, clearly deep in thought.

"All right," Morgan signaled for Duane, heading down the stairs with his own son. When their footsteps had rescinded, Rick turned to Carl.

"Carl," Rick began, "I know this is happening fast—"

"Dad," Carl cut him off. "I know. It's ok."

"Just ok?" Rick asked. For a moment, an old fear raised its head. Rick wondered what Carl remembered of Lori, what he remembered of that time on the Walsh Plantation. He never intended for Carl to find out the kind of woman his mother became before her death, but his son was far too perceptive to be deceived forever. Rick had gleaned that Carl was not as in the dark about the nature of their relationship as Rick wished he would be.

"She's not exactly like mama," Carl said simply, looking thoughtfully at the door. "But I think…I think she doesn't have to be. I like Michonne just the way she is."

Rick felt his stomach clench. "You don't mind us getting hitched?" he asked.

Carl grinned. "I'm glad you are. Now she never has to leave us," his eyes went to the bedroom door. The women inside were giggling already. "I bet she's going to look really pretty when she comes out of there," Carl speculated.

"I bet she will," Rick agreed. Sometimes, he could see shades of the man Carl would be one day. It never failed to fill him with pride. "You want to take a walk with me, son?" he asked.

"I'll grab my hat," Carl scampered back into his room. He emerged a second later, with boots and hat in hand. Rick clapped him on the shouldering, heading down the stairs to join the men outside.

-l-l-l-l-

"You really don't need to go through all this trouble…" Michonne began. She was seated on a big wooden chair in front of the bedroom mirror, being poked and prodded on all sides by every female on the farm.

"Hush," Sasha and Maggie spoke in unison. Sasha fussed with Michonne's hair, while Maggie and Beth tugged at the fabric around her.

"You did a magnificent job with this, Beth," Maggie complimented her sister. She bent forward to study the dress, fluffing the skirt around Michonne.

Beth flushed prettily. "I wanted Miss Michonne to have something nice," she mumbled quietly. "Carol helped me do the embroidering." From the bed, Carol gave a simple nod, smiling as she rubbed her baby bump. By anyone's best guess, the farm was mere days away from having a baby on hand. Carol seemed happier than she'd been since she arrived, quietly going about her business on the farm, contributing where she could.

Michonne glanced down at the fabric surrounding her. The bulk of it was black as night, ebon and shiny, with long sleeves and a full skirt. It was the embroidering though, which caught her eye. Dozens of flowers were hand-stitched in, bright red, white, pink, and yellow, embellished by deep green foliage. They were concentrated at the hem of the skirt, trailing up and thinning out as it moved up towards the waist. The sleeves were adorned with the same thread that made up the blooms, the fringe hanging down at her wrists. The neckline was similarly outfitted, plunging just low enough to be provocative without causing whispers.

"Mama had a dress just like this," Beth said, noticing Michonne's gaze. "But in blue. I just copied her design." There was a wistful tone to the girl's voice that Michonne empathized with immediately.

"You're very talented," speaking was difficult for Michonne at the moment. She'd begun this day in bed with a man she loved, and she was set to marry him as soon as possible. She hadn't dared imagined that there would be a dress, or any type of ceremony. She'd presumed that she and Rick would simply speak with Hershel, take their vows together and continue on with their day. It would have been enough for her. But this…

"You deserve it," Maggie piped up, finishing up her fussing with the skirt. She seized a length of gold fabric from the armoire, draping it around Michonne's waist. With a flourish, she tied a bow in the back.

"Rick's going to fall over," Sasha nodded with satisfaction, rolling and pinning Michonne's hair like an expert. Michonne wondered fleetingly how often Sasha had been forced to do this for her father's wife. Sasha, perhaps sensing her thoughts, offered Michonne a smile. "How does she look, Judy?" Sasha called out to the little girl seated on the bed.

Judith stared at her seriously, appraising. "Beautiful," she declared at length. "Like a princess."

Michonne felt warm at the compliment. She reached for the little girl. Judith came at once, clambering into Michonne's lap with little regard for the sanctity of the fabric. She traced the flowers with small fingers, humming some song to herself.

"If I had known there was going to be a wedding, I would have made one in white," Beth said sheepishly. "Black isn't the usual—"

"It's beautiful," Michonne echoed Judith. "The most beautiful thing I've ever owned. Thank you," she told Beth sincerely.

Beth flushed red as an apple. "Mayhaps I'll get to make another one soon," she ventured, gazing at her sister.

Maggie smiled. "Mayhaps you will," she said simply.

Michonne and Sasha caught one another's eye, raising their brows in a mirror image of one another. Michonne would need to speak with Glenn soon. She'd been so consumed in her own relationship that she was missing his.

"Is my daddy dressing up?" Judith asked from Michonne's lap.

"He better be," Maggie mused. "I can go check."

"I'm sure that Morgan and Glenn are helping him," Sasha said.

"I hope he shaves," Beth announced to know one in particular. "He used to look so handsome when he shaved."

" _Beth_ ," Maggie scoffed.

Beth shrugged. "I just think Miss Michonne ought to see it and decide for herself."

Michonne found herself laughing, her nervousness dissipating. "You know what?" she said, smiling. "I don't mind his beard so much."

-l-l-l-l-

"You need a shave," Morgan announced with finality, brandishing a straight razor.

"Where'd you find that old thing?" Rick chuckled. He couldn't remember the last time he'd used it. Long ago, Lori used to help shave out on the porch. He found he had less time for grooming after he took on the task of single fatherhood. He normally just trimmed handfuls of it with Lori's old sewing scissors whenever it got too wild.

"You're about a week away from that beard you used to keep during the war," Morgan's voice was serious but his eyes shone with a familiar warmth.

"It ain't that bad," Rick smoothed a hand over his chin. The bristle hairs were beginning to curl, but it was nothing compared to the growth he accumulated after deserting. He had been near unrecognizable in Jones County. "Besides, I don't think Michonne minds it," Rick added.

"Hmmm," Morgan made a knowing sound. "Been meaning to ask you about that. What happened to all that chivalry?" he cocked a brow.

"We shared a bed, is all," Rick was quick to inform his friend. "It was a long day, and I didn't want to be parted from her." In fact, he never wanted to be parted from Michonne again.

Morgan nodded. "I understand the sentiment, but I had good money riding on you."

"You all were betting on me?" Rick couldn't say he was completely surprised.

I thought you'd make it all the way to the wedding night," Morgan showed no shame as he confessed. "Glenn had two night's watch that Michonne would convince you before then. Theodore bet that you and Michonne were already pregnant, and Daryl had half a bottle of whiskey on you being too yellow to ask her to marry you," Morgan recited.

Rick laughed despite himself. "Well, you all lost," he informed him happily, taking the razor.

"You took the woman you love to bed and just slept?" Morgan was understandably skeptical.

"I didn't say that," Rick flashed a devilish grin, slathering soap and water onto his cheeks.

Morgan just laughed. "You know what? I don't want to know. Don't want to think about you like that."

Rick tilted his head in front of the washroom mirror, "Probably a good idea," he told Morgan. They both listened to the light scraping of the razor across Rick's skin, the hair falling away into the wash bin.

"I've got Carl and Duane cleaning up. Theo, Tyreese, Daryl are good with staying on guard for now," Morgan recounted. "I'll switch them out soon."

"You know," Rick paused, glancing at his friend. "You don't have to go through all this trouble." Rick had planned to marry Michonne quietly and spend the rest of his life showering her with all the fine things he could give her. It had not escaped him that Merle was still lurking around, that the dead were still outside the fence.

"You have to enjoy the little moments," Morgan said, understanding Rick's thinking immediately. "Besides, you went out of your way when Jenny and I jumped the broom. Snuck into that confederate shed to get enough food for a feast."

Rick flushed. He'd half-forgotten about that. "Jenny saved my life," Rick reminded Morgan.

"She did," Morgan nodded. "And you saved Duane and mine."

Rick paused in his ministrations. "Thank you," he said simply.

"You're welcome," Morgan grinned. "Still though, we might want to do this quick. That way we can get back to business," he paused, smirking. "And you and Michonne can get down to business."

Rick flicked water at him as Morgan rushed from the bathroom, chuckling. He paused for a moment, studying himself in the mirror. With the absence of his beard, he looked younger, almost like the young man he'd once been.

With a grin, he kept shaving.


	19. Worth the Wait

**A/N: Thank you so much for all of the lovely feedback both here and on my tumblr. You all sure know how to make a person feel loved.**

 **On that note...I hope you love this chapter. Enjoy!**

* * *

Michonne made her escape into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. The rest of the women of the house had scattered to other tasks, finishing dinner preparations, getting dressed, switching out the guard. Michonne was wholly grateful for her bridal party and the affections they showered on her, though she did not mind a moment's solitude. She smoothed her hand down her skirt, tracing the raised thread of the embroidered flowers. It was a beautiful gown, but it somehow felt borrowed, as though she were a child again playing dress up. She sat delicately, trying to preserve the sanctity of the dress, perching awkwardly upon the corner of the mattress. What Michonne wanted more than anything now was to be in Rick's presence, to see whether he was as nervous as she. It did not escape her notice that this was his second time entering into such a union. She wondered whether this time was different. She'd been informed in no uncertain terms that it was bad luck for a groom to see the bride before the wedding and was banished accordingly. She wondered if she might spy a glimpse of him from the window. Standing up, she turned, teetering in her hoop skirt unsteadily. She reached for the edge of the dresser to still herself. Her eyes landed on a small wooden box that had not been there previously. Curious, she opened it.

It was hand carved but smoothed on all sides, emitting the warm scent of maple wood as she removed the lid. Inside were a bundle of cream-colored magnolias, the stems tied together with a length of gold ribbon, and a folded note. Michonne lifted the blooms out gingerly, relishing their smell as she set them carefully to the side. With trembling hands, she opened the letter, recognizing Rick's tidy penmanship at once.

 ** _My love,_**

 ** _I intended to steal upstairs to see you, but was intercepted by your entire bridal party. Despite my best protests, they insisted that I leave you be. Apparently, the success of our marriage is dependent on this time-honored restriction._**

 ** _Though I hate to shirk tradition, I must admit that I instantly searched for a way around this rule. I wanted to speak with you, Michonne, before the ceremony, to assure you of all of the things I have long desired to tell you. I hope this will suffice. It may seem odd that here, at the end of the world, the Lord saw fit to bring me you. Truthfully, I think I may have spent the whole of my life waiting for you without knowing it. And though my first marriage had love at one time, it is a pale and poor comparison to what I have discovered with you._**

 ** _In any life I would have chosen you, regardless of the circumstances of the world before this one. If you had desired to go to Canada, I would have been beside you (our children in tow). If California had called you, or you had been drawn deeper into Mexico, you would have found me like a shadow in your wake. And though this world is no less dangerous than the last (filled with as many mindless threats as Kings County has ever been) I will do everything in my power to remain where I have always been meant to be: by your side._**

 ** _It is tradition to give your bride magnolias on her wedding day. Around here, they symbolize purity and nobility. While you certainly possess these virtues in abundance, these flowers remind me of you for other reasons. Like you, the magnolia tree grows tall and beautiful, withstanding the harsh reality of this world. Long after its blossoms wilt, the tree stands strong, living for a century, bringing life to those around it. They withstand the test of time and remain lovely._**

 ** _I love you, my bride, and like a magnolia tree, we will weather this world together._**

 ** _Yours forever,_**

 ** _Rick_**

Michonne read the note three times, her heart racing, tears in her eyes. She wanted to rush from the bedroom, down the stairs and into Rick's arms, wherever he might be. Instead, she placed the letter back inside the box, carefully patted her face dry, and lifted her bouquet into her lap. Eagerly, she watched the door, waiting for Sasha to return and retrieve her. She relaxed in her seat, happy to find that the dress fit more comfortably now.

-l-l-l-l-

The rings were warm to the touch in Rick's hand, the simple gold bands pressed hard against his palm.

"Hershel," Rick began again. "I can't accept these."

"You can and you will," Hershel smiled. "I won't hear another word."

Rick glanced down at the jewelry, overcome. "These belong to you—"

"They did," Hershel nodded. "They saw me and my wife through many good years. And now, I give them to you." He reached forward, closing Rick's hand around the rings. "My prayer is that the two of you have just as many blessings."

"You should save them," Rick said, swallowing thickly. "For Maggie, or Beth—"

"Their mama left them plenty of lovely things," Hershel chuckled, "plenty of jewelry for when their day comes. This though, this is for you and Michonne."

Rick nodded, steadying himself. There was familiar pressure building behind his eyes. "You got me out here, blubbering like a baby," he accused Hershel.

"Well, it's your wedding day," Hershel reasoned. "It's as good a time as any for a man to shed tears."

Rick laughed, running a hand down his freshly shaved face. He glanced anxiously at the staircase. Michonne was in their bedroom, he knew, being fussed over by her bridal party. Any moment now though, she would come down those stairs and join him.

"Are you ready?" Hershel read Rick's thoughts, smiling.

"I am," Rick said. He'd been ready from the moment she stumbled up to this house in the middle of a rainstorm. It was raining again, the sky gray and drizzling. Though it would have been lovely to marry Michonne outside beneath a blue sky, this somehow felt right, like God was giving him a sign.

"Then I'll go get everyone," Hershel clasped him bracingly on the shoulder.

"Thank you," Rick called after him.

Hershel nodded, heading outside. Rick rolled the rings in his hand, his eyes still on the staircase. In moments, the house became a flurry of motion. Carl joined him at his side, hair brushed and free of his hat. Rick handed him the rings with a smile. Morgan filed in behind him, with Duane, Glenn, and Theodore in tow. Daryl paused by the door, crossbow in hand, staring out of the window.

"All right!" Glenn hollered up the stairs, "We're ready down here, ladies!"

The call echoed through the house. There was a moment of silence, then a flurry of motion.

"One second!" Maggie yelled back.

"C'mon," Daryl groused. "You've had all morning." He glowered at the stairs before turning restlessly back to the window.

"Leave the ladies alone," Theodore spoke up, but without his usual venom when he addressed Daryl. He was watching the front door anxiously.

"Where's Tyreese?" Rick questioned, trying to ignore the sounds of the ladies upstairs tearing around.

"He's coming," Theodore's eyes snapped back to the front.

As if he'd been summoned, Tyreese suddenly opened the door, shuffling in with Sasha behind him. Both were dressed in their best, like the rest of the group. Rick appreciated the effort.

"Sorry," the large man announced. He bent down to hear something that his sister whispered to him. Nodding, he joined his place in line, arms behind his back. Sasha scurried up the stairs.

"Tell them to hurry, please!" Glenn shouted up at her. Sasha just laughed.

The men stood in the main room in silence. Rick's nerves began to increase.

"We're ready!" Beth was the first to appear, the basket that had this morning held apples now bearing flower petals. "Theo, Tyreese, are you ready?"

"Ready!" Theodore announced, brandishing a fiddle from somewhere behind his back. With a flourish, Tyreese pulled out a battered horn. With a deep breath, they began their best approximation of the Bridal Chorus. Rick and Carl laughed in delight, surprised. Ceremoniously, Beth began to drape the petals down the stairs, Judith at her side. The little girl skipped more than walked, tossing the flowers into the air like confetti.

"You look nice, daddy!" Judith announced brightly. Beth accompanied her, giggling. Rick smiled at both before redirecting his attention to the stairs.

Maggie and Carol came down next, holding on to one another, blooms tucked into their hair. Glenn turned visibly red at the sight of Maggie. The girl smiled shyly at him before taking her place beside Beth and Judith.

Finally, _finally_ , Michonne appeared. Rick felt the air leave his body in one giant exhale. He'd never seen a bride dressed in black before, but he knew immediately that there would never be a more beautiful one than Michonne was now. She looked ethereal, like nature itself, as she seemed to float down the staircase atop the flower petals, the embroidery of her gown shining brightly. Someone had tucked flowers in her hair as well, the locs woven into a complicated coif that left her face bare to his gaze. She held the magnolias he had left for her against her breast. It was a stunning picture, to be sure, but it all faded in comparison to her smile when she saw him.

Rick smiled right back at her.

-l-l-l-l-

Michonne was not entirely sure how she'd gotten down the stairs. She knew that Sasha helped her with her skirt, knew that Theodore and Tyreese were playing some kind of music, knew that the whole farm was packed inside the main room, that it was raining outside. The only thing she could focus on was Rick. He was standing, dressed in his pale lilac shirt, dark brown vest and pants, his face clean shaven, looking like the prince out of a fairytale her mama had told her. He smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners, joy clear on his face. Her own cheeks hurt from wearing a similar expression.

Sasha coaxed the bouquet from her hands, steering her gently in front of Rick. She managed to glance gratefully at her friend before she joined the rest. Once Rick took Michonne's hands, all else was lost to her.

"You look beautiful," he mouthed the words at her, squeezing her hands in his own.

Michonne just smiled back, unable to speak. She felt as though she was already on the brink of tears. From behind his father, Carl was grinning at her. Michonne knew that Judith was just behind her, hand in hand with Sasha, watching with stars in her eyes.

Hershel cleared his throat, his Bible in his hands. "We are gathered here today, to celebrate the union of Miss Michonne, and Richard Grimes. It may be said that it is unfortunate that this has few of the trappings of a proper Victorian ceremony. I disagree." Hershel paused, looking warmly at them. "There may not be a cake, true, or a wedding band, or a feast. There may not be gifts wrapped in paper, or roses, or wine. Those are the things that make a wedding. They do _not_ make a marriage. The two of you already have what you need to build a life together in any world: love and respect. So without further ado," Hershel opened his Bible. "Richard, we'll start with you. Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honor, and keep her, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?"

The words rang in Michonne's ears, but not nearly so much as Rick's response.

"I will," he said, squeezing her hands again.

"Good," Hershel looked pleased. "And Miss Michonne, wilt that have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God's ordinance, in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honor, and keep him, in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?"

"I will," Michonne bit back tears, clinging hard to Rick, grateful for the long skirts that disguised her shaking.

"Then," Hershel reached for the couple, gently undoing their hands, "repeat after me," he commanded. "I Richard, take thee, Michonne, to be my wedded wide, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance: and thereto I plight thee my faith."

Rick stared at Michonne, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I Richard," he began, his accent deep and rumbling, "take thee, Michonne, to be my wedded wide, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance: and thereto I plight thee my faith."

"Michonne," Hershel looked to her, "repeat after me. I Michonne, take thee, Richard, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance: and thereto I plight thee my faith."

Michonne took a breath, stilling her trembling. "I Michonne, take thee, Richard, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance: and thereto I plight thee my faith."

"Then, by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife," Hershel announced. "Carl, do you have the rings?"

Carl stepped forward, eagerly brandishing to gold bands. Michonne looked at them in surprise. Rick gave her a smile, his silent promise to explain later. He seized the smaller of the two bands, sliding it onto her left ring finger. Michonne accepted the other from Carl, pushing it up onto Rick's finger.

"Well," Hershel grinned at them. "Richard, go ahead and kiss your bride."

A round of hollering went up as Rick seized Michonne around the waist, pulling her into his arms. She let out a surprised giggle before Rick's mouth came down on her own, sealing their union. There was a flurry of motion around them. Morgan stepped forward, rushing to retrieve something behind the couch. Michonne was only vaguely aware of it as Rick held her.

"I love you," Rick released her, holding her against him.

In answer, Michonne kissed him again, to the amusement of the whole farm.

"Wait, wait!" Morgan announced, chuckling. "It ain't official yet." With great showmanship, he laid a broom at their feet. Someone had decorated it in flowers and ribbon. Michonne began to cry at just the sight. "You have to jump," Morgan told them, stepping backwards.

Theodore and Tyreese began their music again. Even Daryl turned away from the window to watch, looking amused.

"Ready?" Rick asked her.

"Ready," Michonne took his hand.

Together, they jumped.

-l-l-l-l-

The door nearly leapt from the hinges as Rick kicked it shut behind him. From her place in his arms, Michonne giggled. She was buried in a mound of fabric and flowers, her skirts gathered beneath her. Rick grinned at her, bending his head slightly to kiss his new wife soundly.

Her laugh transformed into a breathless sigh as he carried her further from the threshold. Rick did his best not to rush, lowering her so that she could sit on the bed. She kept her arms draped around his neck, refusing to relinquish her hold on him.

"I got your letter," she whispered to him, gesturing to the box on the dresser behind him.

Rick grinned. "Did you like it?" He'd hoped that his skill with a love letters had improved in the past weeks. By the look on her face, he'd wager that he'd been successful in his endeavor.

"I loved it." She ran her hands down his smoothly shaven face, her eyes darkening with a desire he recognized. "I love you," she told him certainly, reaching up to kiss him once more.

Rick met her eagerly, kissing her deeply, relishing in the feel of her. She broke away for a shaky breath and Rick seized the opportunity. He stood again, gently coaxing her to her feet. "You look beautiful in this dress," he wrapped his arms around her waist, kissing at her neck.

"I want you to take it off of me," she told him without hesitation. She reached up, undoing the pins and removing the flowers in her hair one at a time until the locs began to fall loose. Rick spun her in his arms, pulling her back to his chest, unable to resist pressing himself against her. She gasped as his hands encircled her. He could feel her through her dress, the round curves, the muscle, every beautiful inch of Michonne. She had chosen _him_ , was giving herself to him. He would make sure she never had cause to regret it.

Rick much preferred the simplicity of her yellow dress to this one as he undid each eye hook with sure, steady fingers. Michonne was a trembling mess as he reached the waist, undoing the sash before allowing the gown to pool at her feet. He pressed kisses down the back of her neck, gathering her hair in one hand and sweeping it to the side. Her shivering increased as he lifted her out of the fabric, laying her on the bed instead. She'd forgone the complicated undergarments and hoopskirts of a traditional wedding gown, instead opting for only a simple slip. Rick traced the straps at her shoulders, watching her as her breathing hitched.

"Now you," she said quietly, eyes wide. She sat up to watch him.

Rick disrobed quickly, aware of his wife's eyes on him as he removed his boots and vest. He worked the buttons of his shirt through the holes before shrugging it off as well. He hesitated at his pants, fiddling with the heavy buckle.

Michonne shimmied forward, dropping her feet to the edge of the bed. She touched his waistband tentatively. Rick cupped her face in his hands, leaning down for another kiss. Her hesitancy seemed to dissipate as she parted her lips beneath his, sucking lightly at him. Rick nearly fell to his knees at the sensation, buckling forward against the mattress.

"Rick?" she pulled back, sighing as he nuzzled her.

"Yes, wife?" a tremor ran through her at his term of endearment. He kissed her again.

"What you did last night…" she began.

Rick reached for her, smoothing his hands over her legs. "Would you like me to do it again?" he questioned, eagerly anticipating it. Michonne leaned forward, shaking her head.

"No," she breathed. "Well…yes," she amended. "But I was wondering," her hands worked to unclasp his belt. She began on the fastens. Rick's eyes snapped shut as she began to push his trousers past his waist. He opened them again when he felt the cool night air. Michonne was staring at him, unabashed. Her dark eyes flickered up to his face.

"What are you wondering?" he questioned, attempting to crawl onto the bed. Michonne pushed him back across the blankets. Rick fell over, pants at his ankles, staring up at his wife curiously.

"What you did to me last night…" she kissed him, nipping at his lips as she leaned back up. "Is that something I can do for you?" she asked innocently, hovering over him.

In answer, a groan escaped his lips involuntarily. His wife smiled. Following his example, she began to kiss down his bare torso. Rick's blood ran hot at once, a thrumming pumping furiously in his ears. She fumbled for a moment trying to remove his pants. Rick hastened to assist her, kicking the offending articles off his feet. From her place above him, Michonne began to laugh, her giggles setting her body shaking. Rick paused, realizing the absurdity of it all, and joined her.

"C'mere," he reached for her, dragging her down atop him. Michonne collapsed against him, draping her arms around his head. He leaned up to kiss her again, wrapping his arms around her. He took his time, walking his fingers across every inch that was within his grasp. She began to melt against him, her legs coming to either side of his waist, her head lulling forward. "We don't have to rush," he reminded her, rolling over. Michonne folded beneath him, anchoring herself by wrapping her legs around his hips. Rick pressed her into the mattress. "We have our whole lives, wife."

She gasped, arching up into him. "I want…" she began, hissing as he nipped at her shoulder, sliding the strap over her arm.

"Tell me," he requested, cupping her. She arched again, pressing herself into his greedy hands.

"Please touch me," she whispered, reaching down to lift her hem.

He obliged, helping her raise the silk over her head. She pressed herself to him, skin on skin. The feel of her was enough on its own to make his head spin, her skin dark and smooth and warm. He reached for her, trailing his fingers down to her waist. The heat of her became an inferno. He touched her gently, his blood pumping again as she moaned in his ear. He wanted to unhinge her, to make her feel the same reckless abandon that she inspired in him. He pressed harder, and was rewarded with another low moan. Her fingers dug into his back as he began anew to kiss her, licking and sucking until she squirmed against him. She panted his name, leaning into his touch, tightening her legs around him. She used her strength to reverse their position, suddenly gaining the upper hand.

Rick let out a surprised chuckle, happy to recline as she resumed her previous goal, working her way down his body. Her tongue darted out tentatively. Rick tossed his head back, an appreciative groan escaping him. It urged her on. She felt like heaven. Rick sucked in a shaky breath, attempting to maintain control. His hips jerked as she grew bolder with her movements. He gave into the pleasure, rumbling instructions when she paused, crying out his encouragement when she began again. It was good, _too_ good, something he had not counted on experiencing tonight. Though he loved the sensation, he wanted to take their pleasure together.

"Michonne, love," he called to her. He was quickly unraveling.

"Yes?" she sat up. Her hair streamed hanging in her face, her lips pouting from his kisses, her eyes sparkling.

"I need you," Rick sat up, pulling her into his lap.

-l-l-l-l-

The fire was back again, the delicious pressure Michonne had once been so certain would kill her now filling her with delight. She gasped as Rick's hands did their work, pressing at her while she moaned and shivered beneath him. The sensation was unfamiliar but addicting, her body at once tightening around the intrusion and demanding more.

"More," she gasped, "please, Rick…"

Instead, he withdrew completely, propping himself above her with one arm. He took himself in his other hand, running his length against her center. Michonne pushed her hips up towards him, seeking her husband.

"Are you ready?" he asked her in a throaty whisper. He leaned in, pressing against her entrance.

"Make me yours, husband," she told him. Slowly, methodically, he obeyed. She gasped, her body stretching to accommodate him. Never before had she ever felt so full. She clung to him, chest heaving. He paused, kissing her forehead.

"Relax," he instructed, withdrawing just a bit. He drove back in, and she arched against him, panting. With every thrust, her body accepted more of him, the discomfort dissolving rapidly into pleasure. She moved with him, crying out when he reached some deep part of her. He did it again, then another time, delighting as she did.

She called his name over and over, shuddering beneath him, her body soaring. She never wanted it to end, but was unsure how much more of this delightful torture that she could take. Perhaps sensing her dilemma, Rick reached for her, rubbing at her until she seized up. Pleasure tore through her, white hot. Her whole body tightened. Above her, Rick let out an impassioned cry, following her into release. He collapsed on top of her. Michonne held him against her.

She was still shaking while Rick rolled to his side, fixing his eyes on her in the dark of the room. The rain continued to fall outside. Michonne nuzzled against him, exhausted.

"That was worth the wait," she whispered, her fingers dancing a path down his sweat-slicked skin. Rick grinned, tossing an arm around her waist, squeezing at her bottom. She let out a delighted squeal.

"Yes it was," he sighed, a devilish smirk crossing his face. He rolled her beneath him again, his length beginning to harden against her.

"Again?" she asked in surprise. Already, her body was responding to his, regaining stamina at the mere thought of him inside of her.

"I'm never making you wait again," he assured her with a laugh, bending to kiss her once more.


	20. The Horizon

**A/N: I'm heading out of town for a week and most l won't be doing any writing at all! Apologies for this very short chapter. Please consider it a preview of what is to come. Thank you for all of the amazing feedback. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

"Shhhhhh…" Rick's voice was a hushed whisper.

Michonne clung to his shoulders, desperately trying to silence herself. If Michonne had been thinking logically, she would have paused to ask Rick how he expected her to be silent when he was doing what he was doing to her. As it stood, she only had the mental fortitude to turn her head sideways to bite down on her own arm. For the last two weeks, he had taken it to heart to make good on his promise to her.

In the past, Michonne's mornings were spent preparing for her day, watering her horse, and planning her next great escape. Never before had she had the luxury of lounging in bed, nor would she have wanted to. Now though, she found every excuse to linger. Her husband was the reason for this newfound habit. Some might call it sloth, but there was nothing lazy about the activities that had become their new norm. Turns out there were many things to learn without ever leaving this mattress.

Rick moved his arms, readjusting, hooking her legs further up his shoulders. Michonne swallowed another throaty gasp, clinging to the sheets beneath her. He smiled at her, that cocky, almost infuriating grin he reserved only for their bedroom sessions. Michonne was powerless against it. She reached for him, grasping his head to pull his face down to hers. He happily obliged, levering over her until she felt nearly folded in half. Blessedly, his lips were against hers when she let out a scream, her world exploding in pleasure.

She was shaking as Rick leaned back, lowering her legs until they were wrapped around his waist. He continued at a more leisurely place, kissing her deeply. Michonne clung to him, stroking his back.

"I love you," it was often the only thing she could think to say in times like this. "I love you so much, Rick."

He groaned in her ear, shuddering as he finished. He collapsed to the side of her, dragging Michonne into his arms. "I love you too," he kissed her bare, flushed skin, relaxing into the pillows.

"Don't go back to sleep," she whispered, giggling. The sun was not quite up, but it would be soon. She had roused him this morning with the intention of leaving the bedroom to begin their chores. Rick had other ideas. It had not taken much coercing to change her mind.

"I'm just resting my eyes," Rick exhaled, grinning crookedly as he closed his eyes. "You keep wearing me out."

Michonne kissed his chest, and then ran her fingers through the curls on his head. Rick rumbled his approval out sleepily. "Are you going out today?" she asked him, laying her head down on his shoulder.

Rick's hands immediately moved to toy with her locs, his eyes still closed. "We need to do another run before winter gets here. That cabin is almost finished, but we need to soundproof it for Carol."

"The baby will be here soon," Michonne agreed. Carol was eager to meet her child. "Do you want me to go with you?" she asked.

Rick blinked his eyes open. He kissed her fondly. "I always want you to go, love—"

"But…" she began, rolling her eyes.

" _But_ ," he echoed, slapping her lightly on the bottom. "If I'm gone, and Glenn's gone, and Daryl's gone, we need someone here who can fight."

Michonne sighed. "Fair," she admitted. "But I will miss you."

"I _always_ miss you," Rick countered. He kissed her again, moaning lightly when Michonne opened her mouth beneath his. She climbed into his arms, straddling his waist. "You're going to wear me out before I can even get out the door," he lamented with no real venom.

Michonne leaned over him, kissing him reassuringly. "Just lay back," she instructed, delighting in his groan as she began to move atop him.

-l-l-l-l-

"We're almost done with the cabin," Morgan informed Rick. The morning sun was coming up now, hanging low over the horizon. Winter could not have been far. Both men's breaths frosted in front of them. Beside Rick, the horses chomped nervously at the bit.

"Good," Rick looked at his friend's handiwork. "Tyreese is a hell of a carpenter," he noted.

"He is," Morgan nodded. "It's a blessing we have him. These will hold for years now," he patted the side of one of the new additions.

"Daryl, Glenn, and I will be back soon," Rick reminded him. "You and Michonne are in charge."

"I remember," Morgan grinned, amused. "You keeping Glenn out of trouble?"

It was the farm's worst kept secret that Glenn and Maggie's relationship had continued. Rick didn't mind in the slightest, but until the two were married, he thought it best to keep Glenn out of Hershel's line of fire. "Trying to," Rick laughed. "Daryl too."

"He doesn't seem to be giving up on Miss Sasha," Morgan noted.

"He doesn't," Rick agreed. Theodore had seemingly let the issue go. Ironically, the less he pursued the young beauty, the more Sasha seemed interested in striking up a friendship. "I think it keeps him distracted from his brother," Rick mused.

"If you meet him out there," Morgan began.

"I'm shooting on sight," Rick had discussed this at length with his wife already.

"And if Daryl doesn't like that?" Morgan prompted.

"That's why Glenn is with me," Rick said. He'd prepped Glenn already on the plan.

"Godspeed then," Morgan clapped him on the back. "We'll hold down the fort."

"I'll be back soon," Rick assured him.

"I know you will," Morgan paused, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Don't think you can leave the missus alone for that long. You know, I think that's half the reason the third cabin went up so quickly. Tyreese and Sasha are getting tired of hearing you two."

Rick flushed cherry red, scowling at his friend. Morgan laughed heartily. "I'll see you soon," Rick shuffled off, leaving his friend chuckling.

Michonne was waiting for him at the wagon, chatting amicably with Daryl. Beside them, Glenn and Maggie were engaged in a passionate farewell.

"Oh good," Daryl glanced up as Rick approached. "Now everyone can kiss goodbye," with an eye roll, he pulled himself into the wagon. Maggie and Glenn made no moves to disengage from their lip lock. Michonne smiled, amused.

"Hurry back," she told Rick, pecking him lightly on the cheek.

"I will," he promised. He kissed her hand. Michonne was clutching a folded sheet of paper.

"For later," she told him, tucking it into his vest pocket. She hugged him. Rick held her for a moment, loathe to leave her.

"All right, lovebirds," Daryl called from the front bench of the wagon. "We're losing daylight."

Reluctantly, the two couples disengaged. A flushed Glenn bid Michonne and Maggie goodbye. Rick kissed his wife once more.

"See you soon," he waved, climbing behind the reigns. With a snap, the horses moved off, leaving the two women waving in their wake.

The ride was silent as they moved past the fence, heading towards town. The subject of going on a supply run had been hotly discussed for nearly two weeks now. Despite their misgivings, the fact of the matter remained that the farm needed things, fabric, food, seeds, and tools. There was only one place nearby to get them.

"Let's do this quickly," Rick said into the silence. "Get in, get what we need, get out. No one goes anywhere alone."

There were nods and murmurs of agreement before the quiet settled again. In the distance, the steeple of the church could be seen, glowing red against the rising sun.

-l-l-l-l-

"Mama!" Judith burst into the kitchen, huffing and puffing.

Michonne turned to her, glancing at the little girl clinging to her skirts. "What's wrong, Judy?" She bent to her eye level.

"Miss Carol, she said the baby's coming!" Judith looked delighted by the prospect.

"Right now?" Michonne straightened up, setting aside her whetstone, and tucked her sword back into its scabbard.

"I think so! Carl is running to get Mr. Hershel," Judith was all but dancing on the balls of her feet. She'd taken to this new world like a duck to water, thrilled at her new extended family. Michonne appreciated her levity, though she knew it could not last. For now, she would enjoy it for what it was.

"Let's go then," she took her daughter's hand, hurrying with her up the stairs.

As promised, Carol was in bed, Morgan at her side. The man was muttering calming words to her. "Michonne," he greeted her as she swept in. "Can you handle this?"

Michonne nodded. A pregnant woman had once made her escape with Michonne, giving birth shortly before they reached the border. It had been a long, stressful night but both mother and child had made it to freedom. "Secure the farm," she told Morgan. "We will take care of this." She smiled at Carol.

With a nod, Morgan cleared the room. Michonne set Judith to tasks immediately, having the girl fetch towels and water with Carol and Duane. She needed everyone occupied.

"All right, Carol," Michonne began. "Are you ready for this?"

Carol smiled through the pain, looking radiant despite her sweat-soaked skin. "I'm ready," she said confidently.

-l-l-l-l-

"Are y'all ready?" Rick asked Glenn and Daryl. The three were perched at town's end, just beyond the church. It was silent as a tomb.

"As I'm ever going to be," Glenn answered. Daryl remained silent, his eyes on the horizon.

"Stay together. You get separated or into trouble, whistle," Rick instructed.

"And if we see my brother?" Daryl asked.

It was Rick's turn to remain silent. Daryl moved off, crossbow at the ready. Glenn glanced at Rick uneasily.

"You sure this is a good idea?" Glenn asked.

"No," Rick admitted. "But we don't have much choice."

They fell into step behind Daryl, moving into what remained of Kings County.


	21. Familiar Faces

**A/N: Sorry for the delay! I was out of the country, then jet lagged, then catching up at work. I hope you enjoy this next installment.  
**

* * *

"Oh hell," Glenn breathed out, scrunching his face in disgust. "Is that-"

"Yes," Rick glanced down, taking care not to step in the puddles. Kings County General Store's floor was littered in bodies, each splayed about in various grotesque poses. Rick had been reluctant to enter, but the needs of his family prevailed over his caution. Everything at the butcher was spoiled, and the bakery hadn't yielded more results than a few bags of flour. Necessity drove the trio to force the heavy wooden door open. The smell alone threatened to level them before they even got inside.

"Walkers did this?" Glenn surveyed the area. "Jeez…" the carnage was unbearable, almost as though a wild pack of animals had attacked. It was hard to know where one body began and another ended. Flies had began to swarm in the moment that the door opened to the outside. Rick left it open. Better flies than this stench.

"Not sure," Rick answered. He bent down, nearly falling over at the stink. "I think…this _is_ the dead," he said, cautiously pushing at the gory mass with his hatchet. It gave a wet slap as it slid over on the floor. The body was all rotten, bloated. He wondered if it had been that way when it met it's end, or if something else had happened. Rick let out a groan. "We should get back to the wagon," he said, standing up.

"Agreed," Glenn looked eager to leave the scene behind. "Whatever happened here, I'm not trying to join them." He tightened his hand around the machete in his fist.

"I want to look," Daryl protested, already poking around. "Something mixed it up real bad in here."

"Your brother?" Glenn asked.

"Might be," Daryl didn't look convinced. "Some of these are walkers, sure. Some maybe died when the town went down…" He continued crouching along, seemingly unbothered by the odors and the gore. "Some of these though…I think someone dragged them in here."

"Why?" Glenn looked disgusted at the mere thought.

Daryl did not answer, but continued his exploration, ducking around the shelves.

"Let's grab what we need and go," Rick decided. He began filling his arms with supplies. Glenn followed suit, attempting to keep an eye on Daryl. They lost sight of him after the third trip out to the wagon.

"I'd say we leave," Glenn announced, tossing rolls of fabric atop the food. "We've taken enough chances just coming up here."

"Agreed," Rick turned around, heading back inside. "Daryl," Rick called for the third member of their party. He had disappeared behind a high shelf less than half a minute ago.

There was no response. Glenn glanced at Rick.

"Daryl," Rick tried again. His call echoed through the store. Cautiously, the two of them entered, quickly sweeping around the now picked over shelves. There was no sign of Daryl.

"Hell…" Glenn cursed. Rick agreed with the sentiment. Near the door, something clattered over, smacking to the hardwood ground. Rick and Glenn straightened up immediately, each brandishing their weapons.

"Back up plan?" Glenn asked Rick in a low voice.

"Maybe," Rick took a few cautious steps forward. "Let's get to the wagon first."

They crossed to the front of the store on long, quick strides, skirting the edges of panic. Rick leaned against the door. It would not budge. He shook at the handle, rattling the wood as loudly as he dared. Glenn chanced a glance out of the window.

"I found the wagon," he sighed. He ducked quickly back out of sight.

Rick looked as well. Their transport was barring their exit. There was no sign of their horses.

"Back up plan," Rick announced, raising his hatchet.

With a nod, Glenn joined him. The wood began to splinter as their weapons went to work.

-l-l-l-l-

"That's a lot of blood," Carl's eyes widened when Michonne emerged from the bedroom door. She glanced down at her shirt, starting at the crimson stain.

"Carl," she kept her voice as calm as she dared. "Please run and get Hershel for me. And Morgan."

With a nod, Carl took off, sprinting down the stairs. Michonne could hear him hollering as he banged through the front door. She lifted the stained fabric of her shirt, pulling it away from her skin. With a shaky breath, Michonne returned to Carol's room.

"How are you?" she asked.

The woman in question was slumped on the mattress, drenched in sweat. Beth applied cool towels to her head, singing in a quiet, calming voice.

"The baby is being stubborn is all," Beth answered for Carol, smiling sweetly. "Save your strength," she soothed.

"I'm so tired," Carol breathed. She looked tinier than normal in the center of the bed.

Michonne came forward with a cup of water for Carol, grateful that Beth had inherited her father's calm demeanor. Michonne's heart was beating like a frightened rabbit. She took a chance to check what was happening. The sight turned her stomach.

"What's going on?" Hershel was in the room all at once, already pinning back his sleeves. Without waiting for an answer, he joined Michonne, his brows knitting immediately with concern.

"Is Carol all right?" Morgan asked, concern clear on his face as he joined them.

"The baby is in breach," Hershel announced simply, pulling up a stool.

"You can fix it?" Michonne asked. She was completely out of her depth now. She turned to where Carl was standing in the doorway with Duane. Concern was written on both boy's faces. Hershel followed her gaze. He immediately smiled, as though the whole situation was inconsequential.

Hershel nodded. "Seen it with the animals on the farm. We can get them through it, but everyone needs to do exactly what I say, and quickly."

There were murmurs of assent from the occupants of the room. They all crowded forth at once.

"All right," Hershel took a deep breath, chancing a winning grin at Carol. "Let's bring this baby into the world."

-l-l-l-l-

"Go," Rick instructed.

Glenn complied at once, forcing himself through the splintered remains of the door and beneath the wagon. Rick followed. Behind him, he could hear the groaning of the dead, their feet shuffling in hot pursuit. He ducked beneath the base of the wagon, bracing himself behind a wheel spoke.

"Now what?" Glenn asked. He was flat on his stomach, looking out. There was at least 100 yards between them and the nearest shelter. The horses where nowhere in sight.

"We run for it," Rick saw no other option.

"You forgetting Daryl's got a crossbow?" Glenn asked.

"He might still be on our side," Rick's mind tumbled, frantically searching for a way out of this.

"That a chance you're willing to take?" Glenn looked at him.

Rick sighed. "You got any better ideas?" he asked his younger counterpart.

"I do," Glenn crawled up onto his knees. "Can you move that wheel on your left?" he asked Rick.

Rick reached for a spoke, pushing. It took some elbow grease, but the wagon lurched forward a few inches.

"You'll need both hands," Glenn instructed. He seized the wheel to his right. "Once we get it going, stay covered."

"All right," Rick braced his feet beneath him, waiting for a cue. Glenn nodded. Together, they pushed.

Sweat ran down Rick's face, stinging his eyes. Despite the coolness of the weather, it was sweltering down here, shoving the wagon through deep tracks of mud. His fondness for his horses ratcheted up. He prayed Merle didn't have his hand on them.

With a sudden lurch, the wagon began to move, rolling forward all at once. Glenn and Rick scrambled to keep up, crouched beneath on all fours. Every second or so, Glenn would reach for his wheel, pushing. Rick mimicked him.

There was a low whistle and a thrum, then the wagon jerked sideways. Another few bolts buried themselves in its wooden body. Glenn gave Rick a knowing look. Something in Rick's gut dropped.

"We'll deal with it," he promised Glenn.

We have no choice," Glenn agreed. Their cover picked up speed, rolling towards the fabric shop just up the road.

"We get inside for cover, bolt the back door," Glenn instructed. We need to get to the top floor, get the advantage of height. That'll put an end to Merle's guerrilla warfare trick."

"And if they bring the fight to us?" Rick asked.

Glenn gripped his machete. "Let's hope they're stupid enough to do it."

-l-l-l-l-

The bedroom filled with the sound of Carol's screams as the woman bared down with all of her might.

"That's it," Hershel coaxed. "One more big breath and a push," he instructed. "Michonne?" Hershel prompted her.

"Ready," she assured the older man, getting into position.

Carol let out another yell, crushing Morgan and Maggie's hands in her own.

A daughter emerged, feet-first, slipping suddenly into Michonne's waiting hands. Michonne quickly tucked clean cloth around the baby, pulling her away from Hershel and into the safety of her waiting arms. Both mother and daughter were crying.

"Now," Hershel announced. Beth leapt forward at once with a sterilized needle and a bowl of water.

Carol collapsed on the bed as Hershel continued his work. "The baby… she called out to Michonne, utterly exhausted.

Quickly, Michonne sat the crying infant on Carol's chest. "A girl," Michonne told her. The baby was turning pink already.

"What are you going to name her?" Beth questioned sweetly, coming around to wipe Carol's face.

"Sophia." Carol answered without hesitation, her eyes only on the child in her arms.

"It's a good name," Morgan complimented. His eyes drifted to Hershel.

From his place, Hershel gave a nod and a smile. "She's out of the woods," he announced. "Praise God."

Relief flooded the room, being replaced instantly with joy. Michonne began to laugh, releasing the pressure. The others quickly joined her. Michonne collapsed into a chair in the corner. Carl quickly made his way to her, laying his hand on her shoulder. Michonne reached out to hug him.

"I'm glad Carol's ok," he whispered, his eyes on the new mother and infant. Michonne was suddenly reminded of how Carl's mother died.

"Me too," she stroked his hair, tugging gently at his arm. Carl allowed himself to be pulled towards her. "You ok?" she asked him.

He nodded, eyes still on Carol, on the soiled and bloody sheets beneath her. Michonne turned his chin towards her.

"Why don't you go get Judith?" she asked. "Your father will be back soon."

Carl nodded, distracted. He scuffled out of the room. Michonne rose to her feet, determined to follow him. From his place at the foot of the bed, Hershel shot her a knowing look. Grabbing a jacket to cover her blood-stained shirt, Michonne quickened her steps.

"Carl," she called after her stepson. He paused at the top of the stairs, still staring at the ground. Michonne reached for him. He turned into her chest, shaking already. Michonne held him, rubbing his back. "It's ok…" she whispered, kissing his head.

Carl just squeezed her tighter. "If you and my dad have a baby…" he began, his voice wet with tears.

Michonne knelt at once, cupping his face between her palms. "Carl, I can't promise you that nothing will happen to me, but…" she hugged him again. "I'm not going anywhere without a fight. Ok?" she asked.

"Ok," he agreed, hugging her again.

-l-l-l-l-

"Come out and fight, you damn coward!" Rick's shout echoed across the empty town. He stared out of the open window for a moment more.

Silence was the only answer. Beside him, Glenn tensed.

"What if he's gone?" Glenn asked. "What if he's trapping us here so he can head back to the farm?"

The thought had crossed Rick's mind as well. There was no reason for this game of cat and mouse. He had half a mind to run out there and end it.

The decision was removed from him, however, when Merle strolled into the middle of the main street like he was out for a Sunday walk. He looked like several miles of rough road. His face was drawn, dirty, his clothing far too baggy. His right hand was nothing more than a stump, the sleeve tucked shoddily around the stump. He'd affixed the baton of a war rifle to his wrist. He was brandishing it like a flag, waving up at them as though they were all old friends, the reigns to Rick's wagon in his good hand.

"Lord," Glenn exhaled. "Didn't think he could get any uglier." Rick let out a wry chuckle. His amusement didn't last long as Merle began to speak.

"Well if it isn't Rick Grimes and the chinaman!" Merle Dixon hooted with an air of delight. Rick's eye began to twitch with annoyance immediately.

"What do you want, Dixon?" he shouted back, wondering if he could hit Merle from this distance. His rifle he had left with Carl, but he was willing to bet he could strike Merle right between the eyes with his hatchet if only the fool got close enough.

"I'm just returning your property!" Merle feigned shock, clutching invisible pearls. "This _does_ belong to you, don't it?" he brandished a folded piece of paper, speared on the end of the baton that now served as his hand.

"Hell," Rick swore, grasping at his now-empty shirt pocket.

"Oh, it _is_ yours!" Merle continued his mockery. "I would say come on down and get it, but you two yellow-bellied cowards are holed in there real good. Maybe I should just read it to you."

"Didn't know you could read," Glenn shouted out the window, voice full of venom. Without further ado, he began to scour the room they were in, searching for something. "Keep him busy," he mumbled to Rick under his breath.

Rick didn't need to do much. Merle was unfolding the letter from Michonne with great panache, his choppy accent butchering words that were only meant for Rick's eyes.

" _My dearest husband,_ " Merle began in a high, lilting, and poor imitation of a woman's voice. " _These past two weeks have been a paradise I never expected to find on this earth, not now or especially before the turn. Despite the general grumblings of nearly every married couple I have come in contact with, I find that marriage to you—_ " Merle broke off, guffawing. "Married?" he crowed. "Tell me you didn't marry that nig—"

He never finished his insult. From the moment that Merle fixed his foul lips to mock Rick's wife's words, Rick had joined Glenn in his mad search. A splintered table leg made an excellent club. Rick hurled it with all his might through the open window. It bounced off the hard packed dirt road, striking Merle in his leg. Dixon let out a series of curse words that would make a sailor blush.

Rick didn't not pause long enough to watch. He was already making his way to the stairs.

"Where are you going?" Glenn asked. "You forgetting Daryl's down there?"

Rick stomped back to the window. "Dixon! What the hell did you do with Daryl?" he shouted.

Merle swore again. "Don't you worry about my baby brother," he yelled back. "I'm looking out for him, like always."

Rick didn't wait to hear more. In seconds, he stomped down the stairs, hatchet in hand, heading for Merle.

"Whoa there, Grimes," Merle held up his arms in surrender. "No need to get violent."

"I think there is," Rick's hatchet was up.

"You kill me, then Daryl's going to die a very painful death," Merle imparted. "I know you don't want that."

"Tell me where he is," Rick demanded. He could head Glenn behind him, storming out of the door brandishing a club of his own.

"My brother's the least of your worries," Merle couldn't resist the opportunity for digs, not even when faced with Rick's murderous rage. "But go ahead and kill me, if that's what your heart's set on." He lowered his arms, shrugging as though it were all inconsequential. "That poor little wife of yours though, she's going to get a might nasty surprise."

Rick froze, inches away from hitting Merle right between the brows with the business end of his hatchet.

"What are you talking about?" Rick seized Dixon by the collar.

Merle grinned nastily.

"Can't kill me if you want to find out," he said.

-l-l-l-l-

"Mama!" Judith's cry went up from the front room. The girl was stationed at the window, peering out of the lopsided lace curtains.

"Judy, shh," Michonne cautioned. "Carol and Sophia are trying to rest." The whole house had gone quiet after the birth, retiring to await Rick's return.

"But there's a man," Judith pointed.

Michonne hurried over, sword bouncing at her waist. She had changed out of her bloodied shirt and into her yellow dress. She nearly tripped over her skirts in her haste. Carl dogged her footsteps. Together, the three peered out of the window.

"See?" Judith asked, pleased that her family took her seriously.

Michonne could see the vague outline of a dark haired stranger riding a white horse swiftly towards them. He would reach the cabins before she could warn the rest. Attempting to stay calm, Michonne quickly picked up her daughter, transporting her away from the window.

"Carl," she turned to her son. "Go get the rifle," she instructed.

"Mama," it was the first time Carl had called her this. The term stopped Michonne in her tracks. She turned to look at him. His face was pink, his eyes wide. "I know that man," he told her.

Michonne's heart sank.


	22. Shane

**A/N: Sorry for the delay! We're closing in on the climax of this story, and that means the end is near. I wish that I could keep on writing endlessly, but the real world calls...**

 **I hope you enjoy this next chapter!**

* * *

Michonne was at the door before the horseman even reached the front porch, her heart beating roughly beneath her rib cage. Judith and Carl were stowed safely away inside with the rifle. From the cabins, the others were silent, still resting in the wake of such a busy morning. Determined to defend her keep and her kin, Michonne had taken up her sword. Her blade was unsheathed, in hand, her eyes trained on the stranger approaching her front door. He dismounted, tethering his horse to the rails in front of the house as though this was a thing he did every day.

"Well hell," his accent was almost charming. "Guess Southern hospitality is a thing of the past."

"A gentleman wouldn't show up unannounced," Michonne did not miss a beat.

The stranger offered a lopsided grin, pulling his hat off with a flourish. "My apologies, ma'am," he was all proper airs at once, a mockery of manners. "I was hoping to find an old friend here."

"Can't imagine you'd find anyone you know around here," Michonne shifted her feet, buying herself time. The stranger had a few inches on her, and more than a few pounds. He was swarthy, dark haired with skin that had been browned by the sun. His hair was patchy, as though he'd cut it off helter-skelter with a blade.

"You sure about that?" he asked, running a hand roughly over his head. "I could've sworn I had the right place." He paused. "This is the Grimes' farm, ain't it?"

Michonne's heart stuttered, but she kept her chin up. "That's not your business."

"Oh," he tilted his head. "I think it is, ma'am." He took a step towards her. "You see, this place here belonged to a friend of mine. So I have to figure one or two things must've happened. Either you came upon this good family's place and took it, _or_ ," he grinned, "you're the new lady of the house. Either way, you can help me."

"And how's that?" Michonne took a step towards him, determined to keep him away from the house.

"This house had something of mine. Something that belongs to me," he glanced at the windows.

"No one here stole anything," Michonne said firmly.

He let out a chuckle, a rough, clipped, mirthless sound. "See, ma'am," he began, "Now I _know_ you're lying."

"Speak plainly," Michonne had enough of this song and dance. "What are you here for?"

"Rick Grimes," the stranger did not miss a beat. "And my daughter."

-l-l-l-l-

Rick's horse galloped beneath him, sprinting all out for the farm. He felt a stab of pity for the animal, pushed so hard for so long, but he was powerless to slow down. Rick needed to get home, to his people, to his children, to his wife.

His heart pounded along with his mount's hooves. He could vaguely hear the sounds of the wagon behind him, long down the road, burdened with food, supplies, and a determined Glenn and injured Daryl. Merle was hogtied there too, awaiting judgement. If Rick's family was hurt in any way…the elder Dixon would pay the price.

Shane Walsh. Rick hadn't heard that name in years, hadn't spoken it in even longer. They'd been friends as children, inseparable in midst of their affection. Then adolescence had struck, and with it, the realization that the two boys were worlds apart. Shane Walsh was privileged, wealthy, from a reputable family. He took to the trappings of that life with great panache. Their friendship dissolved quickly, evaporating away slowly one summer with the southern sun.

Then Lori had chosen Rick. Whatever fondness they'd once had died that day.

Rick snapped the reigns, urging his horse faster still. He had no doubt that Michonne could defend herself from Shane, but nothing could ever be taken at face value with Walsh. If he was in cahoots with Merle, nothing good could come of it.

His hatchet bounced at his side as Rick rushed for home, fear running through his veins.

-l-l-l-l-

"She's not yours," Michonne told the stranger firmly.

"Really?" he looked amused. "Pardon me for saying so, but she sure ain't yours." His eyes flickered over her. "And I know for a fact she ain't Rick's neither."

Michonne's anger flashed. She took a step towards this man, blade extended. "You come to my house, insult my family, and threaten to take my daughter—"

"Your house?" the stranger rocked back on his heels. "So Rick really did it then?" he whistled lowly, shaking his head like it was the craziest thing he'd ever heard. His eyes danced to her wedding ring, glinting on her left hand ring finger. "Can't say I'm surprised; he always had a soft spot for the brownies on the farm." He smirked. "Should've just married you back then, left the real ladies to proper gentleman."

Michonne took a step forward, ready to run this man through where he stood. He was unconcerned.

"You going to kill me?" he asked, amused. "Just because I want my child back? Or did your husband not tell you that he stole her from me?"

"He told me enough," she answered, lifting her sword.

"He told you how we were friends, best friends, grew up together?" the stranger questioned. "How my family took his in, fed them, paid to keep them alive? Did he tell you how my father got his a job on our neighbor's property, how Lori was engaged to be mine?" the stranger was heating up now, flushing with anger. "How he _stole_ her anyway?"

"He told me how she chose him over you," Michonne continued forward. The stranger began to walk backwards, his words still falling fast and thick.

"Did he tell you how she came running back to me the minute he left? How she made a mistake. The only reason she married him was because she got pregnant!" he was hollering now, coming unhinged. "Did he put a baby in you too? Or were you fool enough to hitch yourself to him on your own?"

"Enough!" Michonne yelled back, closing in on him. His yelling had finally alerted the rest of the farm. They were emerging in a panic, closing in on the stranger.

"That little girl in there is mine!" he shouted, pointing at the house. "My flesh and blood! You can't keep her from me," he shook his head, looking for the world like he might charge Michonne without a weapon.

"She's ours," Michonne said calmly, ignoring the shocked and concerned expressions of the others around her.

"I'm not leaving her, not without a fight," the man told her. He fumbled behind him, yanking a curved machete from beneath his jacket.

"Then fight," Michonne challenged, raising her own blade.

A cry went up, but she scarcely heard it beneath the clang of metal meeting metal.

-l-l-l-l-

The horse took the fence at a jump, still charging ahead. Both the animal and Rick were covered in sweat despite the coolness of the autumn air. He could see them in the distance, the members of his farm gathered round, squirming and moving and hollering. His mind raced as fast as his heart, a thousand scenarios filling his head, each as negative at the next.

The field rushed by, the scenery wheeling, but it was not fast enough. When he was just yards away, he began to dismount, leaping from the horse, hatchet in hand.

"Rick!" it was Hershel who yelled for him, who spotted him first.

Rick had no words for his old friend. Instead, he pushed through the tight knot his family had formed, determined to get to his wife. The sight in front of him nearly sent him to his knees.

Michonne and Shane were in the center of the circle, locked in combat. Michonne was fighting with all of the skill he'd come accustomed to with her, spinning lightly on her feet as though it were all just a dance. Her skirts billowed as her sword clashed, the fabric adding to the beauty of her movements. He had no time to admire her as he normally would have. Shane was attacking, his movements less smooth but no less powerful, lashing out and slashing. He would happily kill Michonne, Rick knew, all to get back at him.

"Walsh!" his voice was raw, hoarse, but he yelled nonetheless.

Shane turned to him at once. Michonne did not miss a step. She kicked her leg out, sending his machete flying. With another kick, she knocked the man to the ground. She kept her foot on his chest, pushing down, her sword pointed at his throat.

Shane laughed. "Always did let your women do the heavy lifting for you," he accused, his eyes up on Rick.

"What are you doing here, Walsh?" Rick stepped toward his former friend, joining Michonne at her side.

"You know why I'm here," Shane spat. "And I ain't leaving without her."

"She's my daughter," Rick told him. He wondered where Judith was, if she could see the scene unfolding, if she could hear it. He'd never planned to tell her, never planned to tell Carl.

"I beg to differ," Shane said. "Ask your son, he was there. He's old enough to remember. When you was out in the field, betraying your country, I was the one keeping your family alive. Like father, like son, eh Rick?" he smiled through bloodied teeth.

Michonne lurched forward. Rick caught her arm. He wasn't quite done with Walsh yet. "It's over, Walsh."

"It ain't," Shane shook his head. "And I think you know it." He smirked again.

"Where is it?" Rick questioned. Beside him, Michonne tensed.

"It's no fun if I tell you," Shane smirked.

"Tell me, or I'll kill you," Rick threatened, raising his hatchet.

"Kill me, and you've killed everyone here. My daughter included." Shane fired right back.

"I got your man," Rick knelt down, leaning forward to stare his old friend in the face.

"Merle?" Shane laughed again. "You think I'd trust Merle with everything?" his laughter intensified. "Go on then, risk it."

"Rick…" Michonne called out to him. "What's going on?"

"Oh, you worried your wife," Shane faked sympathy. "You shouldn't keep secrets, Grimes. That ruined your last marriage."

"Shut it," Rick hissed, kicking at Shane. The man didn't even flinch.

"Might want to tell her about the dynamite, Ricky," Shane teased. "I saved it for a special occasion."

Michonne's eyes widened. "Where?" she demanded, pushing the blade of her sword closer to Shane's throat.

"I ain't telling you, not until I get what I want," Shane leaned back, relaxing into the ground.

Michonne's eyes turned to Rick, questioning. Rick swallowed thickly.

"What is it you want, Walsh?" Rick stood up, looming over him.

"I want to meet my daughter." His answer was simple.

"No," Michonne answered immediately.

"All right," Shane shrugged. "Guess we're all going to die then." Behind them, the occupants of the farm were beginning to stir, restless. Shane glanced up at them. "Don't go thinking you can find it," he cautioned. "You start looking, my man lights the fuse."

"You're willing to die for this?" Rick scoffed. The depth of Shane's hatred was staggering.

"You killed Lori. Stole my daughter," venom laced Walsh's voice. "I've been ready."

Rick looked at Michonne. They held one another's eyes for a moment. Almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

"Five minutes," Rick told Shane. "And you don't touch her."

From his place on the ground, Shane smiled.

-l-l-l-l-

"It's all right," Michonne soothed.

Judith was in her arms, clinging to her, clearly terrified. Michonne rubbed her back.

"Dad, no," Carl was in tears, tugging at his father's shirt. "Don't let Shane see her. Don't let him see us!"

Rick started at that, glancing down at his son. "You know Shane?" he asked, his voice heavy.

"I remember," Carl said, tears streaming down his face. "Mama took us there. I remember everything. Don't let him see Judith."

Rick and Carl stared at one another for a long moment. Finally, Rick crossed to his son. He went to his knees in front of him, grasping Carl by the shoulders. Michonne watched, holding their daughter tightly.

"Son, trust me," Rick said gently. "This is going to be over soon."

Carl continued crying, but he nodded, adjusting the rifle in his hands. "Nothing bad's going to happen to Judith?" he asked.

"Nothing bad is going to happen to any of us," Rick promised. He looked up at Michonne. She nodded back at him.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Ready," Rick stood again, walking to the window. Michonne knew Shane was still there, on his knees in the center of the circle, Theodore, Sasha, and Tyreese's weapons pointed at him.

She took a deep breath, adjusted Judith in her arms, and began to walk forward.


	23. Lori

**A/N: Sorry for the long delay! Work has been monopolizing my time. I thank you all for the great feedback. We're nearing the end of this journey, but I hope you're all still along for the ride!**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _"_ _Why are you so dirty?" The little girl's voice was so high Rick could scarcely understand her question. He looked up from his place at the foot of the stairs. She was standing on the porch, practically drowning in layers of tulle and lace ribbons._

 _Rick scowled at her. "What do you mean?"_

 _"_ _You're filthy," she scoffed, her voice an imitation of the high-bred ladies of big houses like this one. "You're face is so dirty that you look like one of the Negros." She stared down at him with distaste._

 _"_ _Well what about you?" Rick countered._

 _"_ _What about me?" she crossed her arms, looking as though she dared him to continue._

 _"_ _You look like a big ole' wedding cake," he gestured to her ultra-feminine attire. "Who'd want to walk around looking like that?" She was pretty enough, he supposed, with her wide eyes and dark hair, but he wasn't about to let himself be bullied because she was pretty._

 _"_ _Better than looking colored," she fired back immediately._

 _Rick opened his mouth to retort, but was beat to the punch._

 _"_ _Lori!" a boy around Rick's age came out of the house. He was darker than she, his hair wiry and thick, curling up wildly. "Why you always gotta be so mean for?" he asked her._

 _She sniffed haughtily. "You're not the boss of me, Shane Walsh," she scoffed._

 _"_ _And you ain't the boss of anyone 'round here," he laughed, an easy, affable sound. "What's your name?" he turned his attention to Rick._

 _"_ _Rick Grimes," Rick answered._

 _"_ _Shane Walsh," he extended his hand, swinging over the banister of the porch to come face to face with him. "You're part of the new family working here?" he asked._

 _"_ _Yup," Rick gestured towards the workmen's houses. He'd spent the best part of the day unloading boxes and tilling the square patch of dirt near their modest one-room shack. His family would depend on that patch for food. Since his daddy was to be working the big fields, the responsibility of feeding his family fell to Rick. "Do you live here too?"_

 _"_ _Sure do," Shane answered. "Nice to have another boy 'round here." He looked at Lori. "She's no damn fun anymore."_

 _Rick startled at the curse word, but Lori was outright angered. "I'm going to tell your mama, Shane Walsh!" she promised._

 _"_ _Fine," Shane looked unconcerned. "You working already?" he asked Rick, looking at the dirt on his face._

 _"_ _I'm always working," Rick flushed. He couldn't remember a time when he wasn't._

 _"_ _Think you can take a break?" with an easy grin, Shane fished a bag of sweets from his pocket, offering one to Rick._

 _"_ _Hey!" Lori protested upon seeing the wax paper wrapped sweets. "You were supposed to share those with me!"_

 _"_ _Maybe I will," Shane tossed one to Rick, staring up at the girl on the porch. "Depends…" he said cryptically._

 _"_ _On what?" Lori took the bait, leaning over the banister to look at the two boys._

 _"_ _On whether you're done acting like a spoiled princess and ready to be fun again," Shane laughed._

 _Lori pouted, but started down the stairs. "I want to be fun…" she said._

 _"_ _Well, all right then," Shane handed her a single candy. "The rest of this is for Rick," he dropped the canvas bag into Rick's hand. Rick fumbled for a moment._

 _"_ _Why?" he asked._

 _"_ _If she's nice, you can share. Or not. Up to you," Shane shrugged. "Sound fair?" he started walking off. "C'mon," he called over his shoulder. "Let's go to the lake."_

 _He left them a few steps behind, already jogging off. Rick looked awkwardly at the girl next to him._

 _"_ _You can have them," he told her, extending the bag of sweets to her. Lori took them with a smile. She opened the pouch, fishing around inside._

 _"_ _We can split them," she said, offering him another. "If you can catch me," she shot off like a bolt, skirts swirling in the dirt._

 _Rick followed with a grin, running after the two children._

-l-l-l-l-

Rick cupped Michonne's chin between his calloused fingers, inspecting her appearance with rapt attention.

"I'm fine," Michonne reiterated, grasping her husband's wrist with her free hand. Judith still clung to her tightly, her little palms digging into Michonne's shoulders. Carl lurked somewhere near her waist. Between the three of them, Michonne was not sure which member of her family was most worried.

"Humor me," he smiled at her briefly before continuing his search.

"I've fought worse than him," Michonne reminded Rick. "He's strong, but not that skilled." Shane fought with strength fueled by anger. It could be a powerful tool, but it made you reckless.

"He could have hurt you," Rick protested.

"But he didn't," Michonne caught his hand, kissing it softly.

Rick shook his head but released her. "I should have stayed home," he bemoaned.

Michonne felt Rick's hand on the small of her back as she stood near the window in the front of the house, staring at the lopsided lace curtains.

"I always meant to get rid of these one day," he said absently, his finger running along the blunt edge of his hatchet. He released his weapon, instead brushing the curtains back. Shane Walsh was still outside, his face bloodied, staring expectantly at the house.

Michonne tightened her grip on the child in her arms, turning her head towards her husband. "Rick, let me finish it," she requested. Her fingers were itching for the hilt of her sword, longing to put an end to the whole charade.

Rick looked at her, fondness clear on his face. "You've done enough," he told her with a wry smile. "I thank you, but this is my fight—"

" _Our_ fight," she corrected immediately. "To protect and cherish, remember?"

"I remember," he promised her. "But Walsh, he's something from _my_ past. I ain't going to ask you to do that."

Michonne nodded, though every fiber of her being protested. As far as she was concerned, Walsh had no claim over Judith, no claim over her family. "Why now?" she asked lowly. "Why wait years?"

"He didn't know," the answer unexpectedly came from Carl. The young boy looked up at his parents morosely. "Mama…she woke me up one night. She used to sleep in the big room. My bed was next door. It was cold in there. The walls made weird noises," Carl recounted, his mind wandering. Michonne moved to hold him, wrapping her free arm around him. "She scared me when she came in. She made me leave my toys. She said we had to run."

"Why?" Rick prompted gently, coming to stand behind his son.

"She said the Yankees were coming," Carl said. "She made me promise not to tell. I never saw Mr. Walsh again. Not until today."

Rick swallowed thickly at this, his neck going beet red. Michonne could see the anger he was barely managing to keep a hold over.

"Someone told him about Judith," Michonne's heart pounded at the mere thought. She was so sure that no one on the farm would betray them.

"Merle," Rick did not hesitate in his answer. "He's seen us in town before. He was bleeding to death, starving. He ran to the only ally he could think of." Her husband's rage was almost palpable.

"Rick," she cautioned lowly. Anger she understood, but anger also made you stupid. Rick's hand had gone to his hatchet again. She needed him focused.

Her voice seemed to do the trick. He shook his head, as though warding away a bad spirit. "Let's finish this," he told her lowly. He released his weapon once more, reaching for his daughter instead. Judith went to him willingly. Rick immediately began to murmur to her, some low lullaby. Michonne turned to their son.

"Carl," she nodded at him. "Are you ready?"

He raised his chin, steeling his courage. "I'm ready," he responded at once.

"Then let's go." She seized the rifle from its place leaning on the wall, pausing only to kiss her husband. "Be careful," she warned.

"I'll be back soon," Rick promised her, kissing her again for good measure.

Together, Michonne and Carl climbed the stairs, hurrying for the front window. Michonne stayed just out of sight, her son crouching at her side. Together, they watched the front door open.

"Does he know what he's doing?" Carl asked quietly.

"Your father would never put you in danger," Michonne answered, leveling the rifle. "And neither would I."

-l-l-l-l-

By Rick's estimate, he had managed to stall nearly 15 minutes. It was all he dared risk without betraying their plan.

"Daddy," Judith's voice startled him from his musings. "Who is that man?"

Her eyes were trained on Shane Walsh, kneeling in the midst of an armed circle. Rick's family was clearly on edge, each clutching a weapon, eyes wild. Even still, their mania could not compare to that of Rick's childhood friend.

"He used to know mama," Rick told her, taking slow steps toward Shane.

"But Mama fought him," Judith expressed her confusion, her face wrinkling.

"Not that mama," Rick refrained from glancing upstairs at where Michonne was hidden with difficulty.

"Oh," Judith considered this. "Dead mama?" she asked.

Rick's throat tightened. "Yes," he said simply.

Judith turned in his arms, studying Shane from a distance. "I don't want him to touch me," she told her father suddenly, burying her face in his shoulder.

"He won't," Rick assured her, holding her a little tighter.

"I can't see," Shane became restless from his place a few yards off. "You said I could see her!" he shouted.

"Hold your horses," Rick grumbled, doing nothing to speed up his steps.

"I ain't the one who's running out of time," Shane retorted. Still, he strained, attempting to lift up on his knees to peer at Judith.

"Don't press your luck," Rick snapped back. He paused a few meters out, turning Judith around. She regarded Shane critically, as though she was appraising him. Walsh, for his part, devoured the sight of her hungrily, ignoring Rick completely.

"She looks like Lori," Shane breathed out. "Just like Lori did when we were children." Shane looked to Rick, searching for validation.

"I know," Rick nodded. He'd seen Lori's face in Judith the moment he held her for the first time. Those weren't the features that haunted him.

"I bet she's just like her mama too," Shane was speaking again, his voice a whisper, as though he wasn't addressing Rick at all anymore. "She deserved the best of everything. She could've had the best of everything."

"She does," Rick cupped the back of Judith's head with his hand, shielding her.

Shane laughed, a chipped, mirthless sound. "You were never the best, Ricky," he called on a nickname Rick hadn't heard since he was 10 years old. "Lori knew that. You couldn't protect her. You couldn't protect anyone."

"Shut your damn mouth," this command came from Morgan. Rick's friend clenched his staff in his hand.

Shane said nothing, only laughed. "I'm glad I got to see her," he said simply. "Shame it had to be this way."

"It doesn't," Rick reminded him. "You could've just walked away."

"I lost everything," Shane shook his head. "Everything that was meant to be mine. But that's all right. You're about to lose everything too."

Rick's retort was lost in the echo of the explosion that suddenly rocked the farm.

-l-l-l-l-

 _"_ _So what are you saying? There ain't no one out here that turns good 'ole Rick's head?"_

 _"_ _Shane…" Rick spared his friend a glance before continuing on with his chores._

 _"_ _What?" the darker-haired teenage shrugged. He was beginning to grow a beard, his skin dusted in dark, coarse hair. Rick's own facial hair was nothing to write home about, just a few unruly curls that required shaving once a week. Shane's daddy had his people shave him every day on the front porch while he read the paper. Rick had the sudden realization that one day, his friend would do the same. The thought upset him._

 _"_ _What do you mean, what?" Rick drew his mind back to the present with difficulty, busying himself with weeding the vegetable patch. Shane watched him, an expression of mild disgust on his face._

 _"_ _I was talking about women," Shane began again. "We're almost the marrying age. Time to start thinking 'bout it."_

 _"_ _Is it?" Rick asked lightly, digging his fingers into the soft, cool soil._

 _"_ _Not surprised you ain't," Shane observed. "No girl's gonna look twice at you all covered in filth like that. Can't you get someone else to do it?" he asked._

 _"_ _Someone else?" Rick laughed. Walsh was so spoiled that he didn't even know he was spoiled._

 _"_ _Yeah," Shane shrugged._

 _"_ _Some people got to do their own work," Rick ribbed, flinging dirt at Shane. Shane sidestepped._

 _"_ _I could give you one, you know," he offered. "Might free up some time."_

 _Rick's face flushed, anger filling him. Shane said things like this more and more often now. The line between them was becoming more defined. There'd been a time where Shane used to trail after the skirts of the colored women like a duckling after its mother. Now, he seemed content to remind Rick just how different he was than his slaves. "I don't mind the work," Rick managed to say between gritted teeth._

 _"_ _Maybe I give you a girl then," Shane continued on as though Rick hadn't even spoke. "Someone to get in some practice when you ain't trying to be Davy Crockett out here."_

 _"_ _No thanks," Rick didn't bother to disguise his anger this time. He stood quickly, attempting to push past Shane. Walsh stopped him with a hand to the chest._

 _"_ _You think I don't see you," Shane began, his tone losing its characteristic mirth._

 _"_ _See me what?" Rick's hackles went up at once._

 _"_ _Looking at Lori," Shane said. His dark eyes danced to the porch of the big house. Lori and her parents had come calling. She was sitting between them, petite in her hoop skirts, sipping on juleps. She smiled when she saw the two boys looking at her, blushing prettily, the way a southern belle ought to._

 _"_ _She's our friend," Rick pointed out. It'd been that way for years._

 _"_ _She's my fiancée," Shane countered. "It was all fine and dandy when we were kids, but things is different now."_

 _"_ _Sure seems that way," Rick narrowed his eyes. He grasped Shane's hand, still against his chest, and threw it off of him. "Figured you weren't too worried about Lori, what with all the women you've been carrying on with. What happened to Andrea?"  
_

 _Shane chuckled, stepping closer, daring Rick to do something. "Don't forget who you is, Grimes," he cautioned. "And who I am. You want to spend your whole life like your pop, keep it up."_

 _"_ _The hell do you mean?" Rick closed the distance between them, his hands balled into fists._

 _"_ _I mean there's haves and havenots in this world. You run with me, I'll take care of you. Find you a wife who don't mind a little dirt." He laughed at his own joke. "But you keep messing with Lori, and I'll make sure you're whole family stays down here in the mud."_

 _Rick went scarlet at once, his vision blurring in his rage. Shane laughed again._

 _"_ _Go on," he baited. "Hit me then."_

 _Rick had hit Shane before, just once when they had been 11 or 12 years old. The childhood squabble had nearly cost his family their place on the Walsh farm. Shane had been his biggest advocate, insisting that they'd only been playfighting. Shane wasn't playing now, though._

 _Rick relaxed his fists reluctantly. Shane smirked, triumphant._

 _"_ _See you around, Grimes," he called, heading towards the porch. "Let me know if you want to take me up on that offer."_

 _Rick watched, incensed, as Shane joined the others on the wrap around porch. From her place in the shade, Lori's face creased. For just a moment, she caught his eyes, expression full of sympathy. Still, she stayed silent._

 _With a sigh, Rick looked away, going back to his work._

-l-l-l-l-

Carl began cursing at once, letting lose a torrent of swear words that would have made even Merle blush. Michonne couldn't fix her lips to even scold him. The blast had shaken the rifle from it's place on the window sill. She quickly scrambled to recover.

"Do it!" Carl began to yell, tears gathering in his eyes. "Mama, please—"

Michonne tugged the window open, training the business end of the rifle down. Shane Walsh was howling like a wild animal, inhuman in his rage. From around him, the members of the farm were leaping into action. Morgan knocked Shane back to the ground with his staff as Tyreese rushed for Judith, seizing the girl and barreling for the house.

"I don't have a clear shot," Michonne felt panic begin to rise in her chest. She stood, hand on her sword. "Carl—" she began.

"Go," his little hands were on the rifle before she could even level her instructions. "Help dad," he took her place.

"Only fire if you get a clean shot," she kissed the crown of his head.

Carl nodded. "Go," he repeated, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. Michonne took off, running outside, sword in hand.

Smoke was billowing in the distance, rising over the tree line. She glanced at it for just a moment before rushing forward again. Shane was still yelling like a man possessed, fighting against both Morgan and Theodore.

"I'll kill you!" he yelled, eyes only for Rick. "I'll kill you Grimes. You took everything from me!"

From the distance, Michonne spotted Glenn and the wagon. Her friend was at the reigns, rushing towards them. He was yelling something frantically. Rick looked to his wife.

"Go," he pled with her.

Michonne met Glenn halfway. "What's wrong?" her eyes flickered over a bloodied Daryl and a hogtied Merle in quick succession.

"Good news and bad news," Glenn began. "We found the dynamite," he said. "Walsh had it on some sort of timer. It's a good thing Rick had us search for it."

"Merle spilled the beans?" Michonne asked.

"After Rick beat him half to death, yeah," Glenn looked behind him at the bleeding Dixon brothers. "But that's not the bad news."

"What's the bad news?" she was almost afraid to ask.

"The dynamite went off," he pointed. "The sound is drawing every walker in the area."

Michonne looked back, way off at the tree line. She could see a shimmer between the trees, the movement of what looked like a hundred of the dead meandering towards them. She hopped into the wagon, seizing the reigns. "Can you fight?" she looked back at Daryl.

The young man sat up, wiping blood from his swollen face. "I can," he assured her.

"Then get ready," Michonne snapped the reigns. With a lurch, the horses took off for the house.


	24. Battle

**A/N: just one more chapter and an epilogue are left! This has been a wild ride and I love that so many of you reached out, messaged me, and had such deep feelings. I know the subject matter is not the simplest, but I've loved the discourse. Please let me know what you think of this next chapter.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 _"Jones!" Rick's feet sank into ankle deep mud as he ran, his lungs burning. The air was filled with smoke, the plumes curling around the battlefield like a serpent, choking the life from the injured strewn about. Rick leapt over them as he ran, unable to distinguish gray from blue, ally from foe, his eyes looking for only one face. "Morgan!" he called for his friend again._

 _Somewhere nearby, a shell exploded, shaking the earth beneath. Rick stumbled, falling to one hand. The ground was wet with rain, with blood, with the tears of dying men. Some soldier, barely more than a boy, lifted his rifle, taking aim for him. Rick raised his own gun, firing quickly. The rebel was dead before Rick could even consider the action. He reloaded as he scrambled to his feet, still searching wildly for his friend._

 _"Grimes!" Morgan's voice echoed. Rick saw his face, dark skin smeared in filth. "Grimes!" he swung his baton, skewering an attacker. Rick redoubled his efforts to make it across the field._

 _They met in the middle, leaving a trail of carnage in their wake. Rick felt relief as he pressed his back to Morgan Jones', despite the war raging around them._

 _"You made it," Jones breathed, taking a moment to clasp Rick's arm._

 _Rick squeezed back, mustering a rusty grin. "Couldn't die. I promised Jenny I'd bring you back in one piece."_

 _Morgan smiled back, "She's a hard lady to disappoint," he said._

 _"So let's not disappoint her then," Rick responded. He flipped the rifle in his hands, baton pointed out. Morgan raised his own weapon. Two more rebel soldiers dropped, lifeless. Morgan's eyes seemed fixed on them._

 _"You know," Morgan paused. "Jenny, she wants me to stop this, stop all this killing. Can't say the idea doesn't have some appeal."_

 _Rick looked at him, taking in his bloodshot eyes, the bodies scattered around them. He was tired too, fatigued to his bones. He wanted to be home, with Carl, with his wife. The exhaustion of it all hit him with the force of a cannon blast. "We'll quit," he agreed at once. "But first, we make it out of this. Deal?"_

 _"Deal," Morgan shook his hand. From somewhere nearby, the sound of bullets drew them back. "Stay with me," Morgan instructed, taking back off into battle._

 _Half a step behind, Rick followed._

-l-l-l-l-

"Rick!" Morgan's cry turned Rick's attention towards the fence in the distance. The wagon that he had left in Glenn's possession was rattling into view, shaking like some wild thing as Michonne pushed the horses hard. He could see the reason for her haste behind her, swarming and pulsing like some great beehive. The dead were coming, drawn by the explosion. His relief at seeing his friends alive was short lived.

"Get inside," Rick pushed Tyreese through the door, pausing only to kiss Judith's head. "Keep them safe."

"We've got this," Sasha promised, rifle over her shoulder. She ushered Carol and Beth in before her. Maggie paused. Rick glanced at her questioningly.

"I'm staying," she announced, chin up.

"As am I," Hershel said.

"No," Rick shook his head at his friend. "We may need a doctor," he patted his friend on the shoulder. "Keep my children alive," he said.

Hershel paused, looking to Maggie. Rick feared he would protest, insist that Maggie give up the fight before it began. Instead, he hugged her tightly before releasing her. "Keep my daughter alive too," he said.

With a nod, Rick moved off, Maggie, and Theodore dogging his steps. Morgan looked to him from his place on the field, Shane at his feet.

"We're fighting," Morgan called to him. It was not a question.

Rick nodded at him, loosening his hatchet from his belt. Morgan chances a glance at their incoming foes. It happened in a moment, so quickly that Rick scarcely registered the motion. Shane took advantage of Morgan's momentary distraction, kicking out and knocking Morgan off balance. He stood, crazed, angry, geared up for a fight, his hands reaching for Morgan's throat.

Shane scarcely touched him when Rick leveled his forner friend with a tackle. Morgan scrambled free, screaming something Rick could not quite understand. His mind was otherwise occupied. Shane fought beneath him, writhing and twisting, gnashing his teeth like a man possessed.

 _"Holler uncle!" Shane screamed right into Rick's face._

 _From beneath him, Rick bid his time. Shane was larger than him, true, but he lacked patience. Slowly, Rick lifted his legs, taking blows to the arms as Shane struggled to make him surrender._

 _"C'mon Grimes," Shane laughed, still wrestling. "You're licked." Despite his bold claims, he was breathless, exhausted. Rick seized the opportunity._

 _He yanked his friend down, wrapping his arm around his neck. Their positions successfully reversed, Shane began to wiggle uselessly, like a turtle on its back._

 _"Chokehold's illegal!" Shane managed to squeak, struggling. Rick held tighter._

 _"Nothin's illegal in a fight," Rick laughed, delighting as Shane gave in._

"I'm gonna kill you," Shane growled, still fighting.

Rick held him down, staring into the face of the man who was once his best friend. "Shane…" he felt a momentary pang of pity, his heart softening for the child who once defended him. "Don't make me do this," Rick pled.

"Gonna kill you," Shane carried on like he hadn't heard him. Rick redoubled his efforts to hold him down. For several minutes they remained locked together, Shane attempting to gain the upper hand, Rick attempting to tire him out. Adult Shane was fueled by some rage his child self had not possessed. He would not be quieted. "I'll kill you all, all of us!" He continued. "Like you killed Lori!"

"I ain't the one who killed her, Shane," Rick reasoned. "The baby in her belly did that." He'd never blamed Judith, not for a moment. The moment he laid eyes on that child, Judith became his.

Shane felt differently. "Could have saved her. Could have given her more children," he rambled, barely coherent. "Least I can do is meet her, bring our daughter home to meet her..." he blinked, a faint moment of clarity in his eyes. "What's her name?" he asked suddenly.

"Judith," Rick answered hoarsely.

"Judith," Shane grinned. "She's gonna get to meet her mama soon."

Rick's blood ran cold. Shane looked enthused by the prospect. Shakily, Rick reached for his hatchet, fingers trembling.

"Rick…" another voice called out to him, deep, calm, and collected. "Rick, you have to do it," Morgan said.

Rick struggled for a moment more, mind racing. "We were supposed to be done," he glanced up at Morgan. "After the war…" he was supposed to be finished killing people he knew.

"Evil didn't stop after the war Rick," Morgan said simply. He took a step closer. "Sometimes we got to stop it."

Rick looked down again, into the rage-filled eyes of Shane. There was a familiarity there, both from the past and present. For a moment, Rick saw Judith's eyes, wild and filled with hurt. His heart clenched.

"Rick," Morgan called to him again. "The dead are coming."

He could delay no longer. The hatchet felt heavy in his hands as he curled his fingers around the handle. Shane didn't even seem to see the weapon but continued to fight, wiggling in vain.

"You took…everything," Shane exhaled, his energy failing him.

Rick swallowed, steeling himself. "I'm sorry, Walsh," he said quietly. He raised his hand, determined to do it quickly. In one swoop, the hatchet hit Shane full in the chest. The fight ebbed out of him in thick rivulets, running like crimson streams into the grass and dirt. Within seconds, Shane moved no more.

Rick wasn't sure how long he sat there, looking into Shane's ashen face, before Morgan reached for him. Strong hands gripped Rick's shoulders, drawing him up.

"There'll be time later," he said quietly. "But now, you've got a wife to help, kids to protect." Morgan shook him gently. "It's time to go to war, Grimes."

Rick nodded, shaking out his head. The wagon finally arrived. Glenn was out in a heartbeat, helping down a blood-soaked Daryl. Michonne moved slower, watching him with worry clear on her face.

"Focus, Grimes," Morgan instructed quietly.

"I'm focused," Rick answered, nodding gratefully at his old friend. He turned his attention to his wife.

"Ready?" she asked, sword already brandished. She joined him at his side.

Rick reached for her hand, squeezing hard. She squeezed back. "Ready," he answered.

In the distance, the dead broke through.

-l-l-l-l-

The dead were untiring, seemingly unending in their stream towards the house. Her arms were heavy as she swung her sword, defending and attacking in fluid motions. She wondered vaguely how long they'd been at this, wondered how long they could withstand. On the battlefield, eventually everyone grew weary. The dead had no such limits.

"You ok?" Rick asked her, pressing his back into hers. The contact anchored her to reality.

"I'm ok," she answered, wiping sweat from her brow as her husband dispensed of the closest walkers to them. From across the field, she could see Glenn and Maggie working in tandem. They were not as adept at putting down the dead, but were managing. Morgan, Theodore, and Daryl protected one another in turns. All around them, body parts were littering the field.

"They're not going to stop," Rick realized, striking out again. "There's hundreds of them."

Michonne felt fear seize her, exhaustion hitting all at once. "Rick…" she called for him.

He looked at her, something like resigned determination on his face. "We can't beat them. Not like this."

"We can't leave the farm," she protested. They'd worked too hard to build this, to build a home. She would not abandon it now.

Rick paused, his eyes on the barn just a hundred meters off. "I could lead them off," he speculated. "Take a horse. Maybe they'd follow…"

His train of thought triggered something in Michonne, some distant memory of being chased through the woods one stormy night months ago.

"They'll follow," she said confidently. "I know where to lead them." Her eyes moved to the flames in the distance, burning like an ember from where the dynamite went off.

"You're not running into the fire," Rick protested immediately.

"Not the fire," she said, smiling, "the river." Water had long been her friend, covering her tracks as she guided others to freedom, saving her when she was pursued.

Rick watched her for a moment, sweat and blood dripping from him. He was exhausted, emotionally shot. Her husband would not last out here much longer.

"All right," he acquiesced. "The river. I can go—"

"Together," she interrupted him. "That's how we make it out. That's how we _all_ make it out," Michonne insisted.

Rick nodded. "Together," he agreed.

Adrenaline propelled her to the barn, her husband at her heels. She covered him as he saddled fresh horses, bringing the animals to the door. Michonne stood near her mount, pausing.

"If we don't make it—" she began.

Rick silenced her with a kiss. It was not the sweet caress she was used to from him, nor the passionate embrace she'd learned to love in their bed. This one, much like his first, was a promise.

"We'll make it," he assured her, helping her onto her horse. "You lead," he swung onto his own, looking at her expectantly.

Michonne snapped the reins, taking off like a shot.

-l-l-l-l-

The smoke grew thick, clouding the air and his mind. It was with great concentration that Rick managed to follow his wife as she guided her animal with finesse through the trees. He mirrored her path as best he could, listening to the dead snapping and growling after them. His horse trembled beneath him, seconds from spooking. Rick had stared death in the face many times, but never could he remember feeling such fear. His senses were filled with it, smoke, and flame, and blood, his heart heavy with the guilt of a thousand sins. Still, he pushed his horse on.

The sound began lowly, almost a faint trickle, buried under the cracking of the underbrush burning. It grew as they got closer, until Rick could almost smell it.

"We're here!" Michonne cried, her voice filled with relief. She urged her animal towards the river. It was flowing hard, months of rain creating a torrent of water, a current sure to pull even the strongest of swimmers under. With a some soothing sounds and a splash, Michonne and her horse entered, shivering together as they pushed hard for the other side.

Rick followed. The water was cold, pricking into his skin like a thousand needles. His horse let out a cry of protest. Rick rubbed her neck.

"Almost there," it was as much for his benefit as the horses. "Almost there."

Michonne's mount clambered out the other side. She turned in her saddle at last, looking at him. "C'mon," she urged, reaching for him. Her eyes danced to the other side of the river. The dead had arrived. The streamed forward without prejudice, falling like a wave into the water. "C'mon," Michonne called again, reaching out toward him.

The ground began to elevate again as Rick made for the muddy bank, his arm outstretched for his wife. Behind him, the dead swept into the current, their moans muffled as water filled their mouths, arms outstretched. Rick's horse decided she'd had enough. In one movement, she threw him from the saddle as she bolted forward.

He fell backwards as if in slow motion, registering the panicked face of Michonne as she screamed for him. Her voice disappeared entirely in a surge of water as his head went under. He'd never been a strong swimmer, never in all his life. The current pulled at him, dragging him under even as he fought. He kicked hard, managing to surface for a second. The world was a blur, spinning and twisting and throwing him about, the water filling his lungs, the dead spinning around him. Blindly, he reached out, clutching at a twisted tree root. He resurfaced, trying to get his bearings.

"Rick!" Michonne called for him, running furiously for him, her horse abandoned. His hands began to slip, tearing on the soaked wood. Michonne dove for him, her strong hands catching him around the wrist. "I've got you," she promised, tugging him towards land.

Rick dug his feet in, climbing out. Dizzily, he collapsed on the dry ground, beneath the smoke line. Michonne clutched him, pulling him into her arms.

"It worked," he coughed, clinging to her. From across the river, the dead continued their assault, being swept away as they entered the river.

"The river always works," she let out a wet laugh, smoothing his hair back. Rick relaxed into her, watching nature clear their enemies away. She laid her head atop his shoulder, shivering. Rick wound his arm around her.

"Good thing there's a fire," he joked, turning towards the flames in the distance.

Michonne's laughter intensified. "Lucky us," she said.

"Lucky us," he echoed, holding her tightly.

"Are you all right?" She asked quietly, pressing a kiss to his head.

"No," he answered honestly. There were a million things that he needed to tell her, many sleepless nights filled with old demons ahead. But they were alive. That counted for more than the rest. "But I will be," he assured her. Struggling to his feet, he reached for her hand. "Let's go finish this," he suggested.

"Once and for all," Michonne agreed.


	25. Together

**A/N: I had a terrible case of writer's block, but a weekend of romances (both dramatic and comedic) shook this last chapter free. I hope you all enjoy!**

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"Michonne, go on in the house," Rick instructed, his tone firm but not unkind.

From her place by his side, Michonne shot him a disbelieving look in the low light. The night stretched on before them, the fire still glowing like an ember in the distance. All was quiet, almost deceptively so, as though they had not just fought for their lives merely an hour ago. The smoke was clearing, revealing the stars, set bright and clean against the inky darkness of the sky.

"I'll go inside when you do," Michonne told Rick in no uncertain terms, her sword still unsheathed and at her side.

"I don't want you to see this," he told her lowly, stepping closer.

"I've seen worse," she reminded him.

"Don't mean you have to keep on seeing it," Rick looked distressed at the very thought.

"Neither should you," Michonne argued, reaching for her husband's hand. She clasped her fingers around his, her concern rising at the coolness of his palm. He'd changed into dry clothing but had yet to warm up after his fall into the river. She'd almost lost him to that swirling current teaming with the dead. The shock of the moment had yet to leave her.

"Somebody has to," Rick muttered. He squeezed her hand tighter.

"Together," she said simply.

"He ain't ever going to forgive us for this, you know," Rick's voice was heavy. A tell-tell wrinkle creased his brow. He rubbed it away with his freehand.

"I think he'll understand," Michonne looked off to the house, where Daryl had disappeared. "He knows the kind of man his brother is."

"Still, family is family," Rick sighed. "Don't matter how bad they are. It hurts to lose them." He swallowed thickly.

Michonne stayed silent, but moved closer to her husband. She lifted their joined hands, letting her lips linger on the back of his palm. He responded by holding her hand to his own mouth.

"I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too," she assured him. "Let's get this done, and go to bed."

With a resigned nod, Rick looked over towards Morgan. His friend was standing in the distance, a length or rope in his hand.

"We have to do it," Morgan reaffirmed. "The family isn't safe until we do."

"You ready?" Rick nodded, walking towards them. Michonne kept pace, refusing to release his hand.

"As I'm ever going to be," Morgan sighed. "Still don't have the stomach for this," he said.

"We got to do this, for Duane," Rick told him. "For Sophia, and Carl, and Judith," Rick looked off toward the shed.

Merle had gone kicking and screaming to what would be his final prison, hollering and cursing them all to high heaven. Daryl had made a plea for his brother, attempting to negotiate for his imprisonment. In the end, he'd been voted down. Glenn, Theodore, and Morgan would not abide Merle anywhere on the property, nor could they let him go.

"Let's get this done," Glenn looked pale as well, but resigned.

Wordlessly, Morgan handed the length of rope to Theodore. The younger man set about securing it to a tree a few yards off, hidden behind the barn where no one from the house could see it. Michonne's stomach turned at the sight of the noose, but she kept her chin up.

"Bring him out," Rick instructed.

"Shouldn't he get final rites, or something at least?" Glenn spoke up suddenly.

"Hershel's been in to talk to him," Michonne said. "Merle wasn't interested." The eldest Dixon had choice words for the preacher.

"He's been in there a few hours at least," Rick spoke. "If he had anything to say to God, let's hope he said it."

"He's been silent enough," Morgan said. "Mayhaps he did take the time."

Michonne glanced curiously at the shed, suddenly aware of the silence. She didn't think that Merle would stop cussing at them all until his last breath. A streak of foreboding ran suddenly up her spine.

"How long has he been quiet?" she asked.

Glenn shrugged. "At least ten minutes now."

"He was tied up?" Michonne asked.

Rick raised a brow at her. "I did it myself," he told her.

"Where did you put Walsh's body?" she asked, lifting her sword.

Rick looked towards Morgan.

"The shed," Morgan answered. Comprehension began to dawn on both men's faces.

"Be ready," Rick stepped forward, keys in hand. "Whatever comes out of there, be ready." He turned the lock, pulling the door open slowly.

Shane Walsh stumbled out, or at least, what remained of him. Gray and pale, his lifeless eyes glanced listlessly at all of them. Michonne had seen plenty of the dead, even fancied herself immune to the horror of it all by now. Seeing a familiar face though had a stomach churning effect that she could not deny, even if it was the face of an enemy.

Rick looked similarly shaken, his face creasing as though he were in pain as the dead Shane set after him. Rick backed up, raising his hatchet. He wasn't faster than Michonne's sword. Walsh dropped dead a second time, landing unceremoniously in the grass beside them.

"Glenn," Michonne called for her friend. "Bring the light." She did not want to see, but she needed to know.

"Let me," Rick stopped her, stepping forward in her place. Together, he and Morgan disappeared inside the shed. Glenn bent to inspect Shane's body.

"He wasn't bitten," Glenn remarked. "But he turned. Everyone else who's turned was bitten."

Michonne allowed that knowledge to sink in slowly, casting a fearful look at her friend. A sound like an axe falling rang out in the shed. Seconds later, Rick and Morgan emerged.

"He turned," Rick announced without preamble. "Shane must have bit him."

"But no one bit Shane," Glenn informed him.

The group stood in horrified silence.

"Let's clean them up," Rick said at last. "We can talk about it tomorrow."

The silence continued as the men set about their tasks. Glenn and Maggie retired to Hershel and Beth's cabin. Carol and her baby had long since gone to sleep, Duane seemed eager to be back at Morgan's side. Theodore and Sasha engaged in a quiet but intense talk before they headed to Daryl's cabin, Tyreese in tow. For her part, Michonne made herself busy getting the children ready for bed.

"Is the bad man gone?" Judith asked, her voice a sleepy whisper.

"He's gone," Michonne promised, kissing Judith's brow. She repeated the action with Carl. Both children stared up at her, wide-eyed.

"You and dad are ok?" Carl asked, settling into bed beside his sister.

"We're ok," she promised. "Are you all ok?" she asked in turn.

"We're ok too," Carl ensured her. He mustered a smile. "I'm glad you were here today," he told Michonne.

"Me too," she kissed the children again.

"Make sure daddy's all right," Judith yawned sleepily. "He gets sad sometimes."

"I will," Michonne promised.

"I love you," Judith called after her. Michonne paused, tears in her eyes, looking down at both children.

"We _both_ love you," Carl confirmed, looking seriously at her.

"I love you too," Michonne managed to get the words out before her tears could fall.

He nodded, satisfied, before curling up beside Judith. Michonne watched them.

She shut the door on them a few moments later, when she was certain that they were both asleep. Filled with renewed energy, she headed for the washroom instead, eyeing the large metal tub. She'd spent her first night in this house there. Rick had reluctantly recounted to her how he'd cleaned her while she'd been unconscious, warmed her, then carried her off to his own bed. Whatever forces had driven her here, she counted herself lucky to have encountered Rick Grimes.

She exhaled, wiping her eyes before turning to the tub, then set about her task.

-l-l-l-l-

"Michonne, sweetheart," Rick called his wife's name quietly. The whole of the farm had retired to their corners already. He was exhausted to the bone, but his mind was racing. He'd found their bed empty, the sheets still neatly made, Michonne nowhere in sight. "Michonne," he called again, following the flickering candlelight in his hand to the washroom door. He pushed it open.

His wife was indeed there, clothed only in his long shirt, the first he'd let her borrow when she came here. Two tall candles were stationed beside his bathtub, their flames throwing shadows across the wooden walls.

"What are you doing?" he asked bemusedly.

She stepped towards him on light, bare feet, reaching for his hands. Gently, she guided him inside before shutting the door firmly and latching it. She reached for his face, cupping it between her hands.

"You're still cold," she remarked, concern coloring her lovely features.

"I was hoping you'd warm me up," he admitted. "But you weren't in bed."

She smiled, and despite the horror of the day he had, Rick felt the burdens on his shoulders lighten just the slightest. "Come here," she tugged at his hands. Wordlessly, Rick complied. He stood quietly as she removed his hatchet, lying it to the side, then his belt. His boots followed next, then the thick damp socks, his long sleeved shirt, then his pants and undergarments. When he was bare before her, she guided him gently to the tub. He sank down into the hot water, letting out a shudder of contentment.

"Better?" she asked quietly, stroking his hair.

"Almost," he reached for her. "Join me," he caught her hand.

She shed her shirt, setting it aside before climbing in slowly. "It's too small," she lamented, standing at his feet.

"Come here," he guided her down atop him, pulling her into his arms. She laid willingly on top of him.

"This was supposed to be just for you," she whispered, kissing his cheek.

Rick held her tighter. "Don't matter. Everything's better when you're here." He pressed his lips to hers, sighing against her as she melted into his embrace. The taste of her was enough to relax him.

"Are you all right?" she disengaged, sitting up just enough to look at him in the way of hers.

"I will be," he promised her. "You saved me," he told her. The water of this tub was far preferable to the rush of the river.

"You saved me first," she reminded him. She stroked his hair, washing his face with gentle affections. Rick leaned into her. The emotion of the past few hours hit him at once, creeping around him like the mist from the tub, heavy and suffocating.

"I killed my daughter's father today," he said quietly.

Michonne did not still in her motions, but moved her hands down his head to his shoulder. She began to knead at him, as though she could rub the pain away.

"He didn't leave you a choice, Rick," she kissed his head.

"Didn't make it easier," he admitted. "I ain't seen him in years. Convinced myself that I hated that man, that I hated Lori for what they both did. But when I look at Judith…" he broke off, a soft sob escaping him.

"I know," Michonne leaned her forehead against his. She continued to stroke his skin, pressing warmth into his body.

"Shane wasn't bit," he continued. "I would have seen it. So would you. But he turned."

"He did," she said simply, pressing harder.

"Everybody must turn," the thought was terrifying. The threat could be endless.

"Maybe," Michonne mused. She settled into his lap.

"There's always going to be an enemy at those gates," Rick looked up at her. "Another war to fight."

She paused at that. Her strong hands came to his chin, cupping him until he could look up at her. "There's always another fight, Rick," she reminded him. "Maybe it will be tomorrow, or a year from now, or a decade." She leaned forward, wrapping her arms around his shoulder. "But we'll weather it."

Overcome, Rick kissed her. She parted her lips and he held her to him, drinking from her like a man dying of thirst. She let out a contended sigh, clinging to him. "Together," he murmured against her lips.

"Together," she promised. She leaned forward. Rick eagerly met her again, pressing against his wife until there was no space left between them. His body responded to hers despite his exhaustion. She gasped against him as she felt him, lifting her hips just enough to allow him to maneuver. Water sloshed inside the tub but neither of them minded. Michonne let out a shaky moan as he entered her, falling forward against him. Rick smoothed his hands down her warm, wet skin, committing it all to memory.

"How did I get lucky enough to find you?" he asked on a groan, pressing his lips to every part of her within reach.

"I was just wondering the same thing," she exhaled, burying her head in the crook of his shoulder.

"Must be fate," Rick caught her mouth in another kiss, his pace unhurried.

The water went lukewarm and the candles dissolved into waxen puddles long before he picked up his wife and took her to their bed, but he found that he did not mind. They fell asleep, tangled around one another.

The morning dawned, bright and cold, and found them the same way.


	26. Epilogue: Dawn

The sun dawned, pale and yellow, spreading across the land lazily. Spring was slow in coming this year, as though the winter had tired it out. Still, slowly but surely, the frost ebbed away and despite the odds, delicate green sprouts fought their way to the surface of the previously frozen earth.

Michonne sat out on the porch, her head tilted back, enjoying the play of the sunlight on her skin. She'd missed this simple pleasure. From the doorway, her husband watched her, clutching a tin mug of tea.

"This is what got you out of our bed this morning?" he asked in a joking grumble, his footsteps heavy as he too emerged on the porch, heading for her.

"I wanted to feel the sun," she smiled at him, making space for him on the swing Tyreese had built that winter. Most often, Duane, Carl, and Judith could be found here, taking their lessons from Carol or playing their games, sword fighting with sticks they'd found in the forest. Occasionally, Morgan and Carol could be spotted sitting here with one another, conversing lowly while she rocked Sophia. Once or twice, Michonne had spotted Tyreese, Theodore, and Sasha crowded together laughing, or Hershel reading the Bible aloud to his daughters. Glenn and Maggie had commiserated here on more than one instance, and once, Rick swore he caught Daryl and Beth having a heart-to-heart in the late hours of twilight.

"It's barely up," Rick observed, sitting beside her now, setting the wood swaying gently. He pressed the cup into her hands. Michonne took a sip, delighting in the tang of the mint tea. It began to settle her stomach at once, providing instant relief.

"So watch it rise with me," she responded, settling against him. She hadn't wanted to wake him this morning when she slipped out of bed, but she was thrilled to have him beside her once more.

Wordlessly, Rick complied, draping his arm around her. A silence stretched between them, comfortable and worn as the blanket Rick had brought outside with him. Michonne passed the cup back to him. Rick took a deep pull, sighing contently, watching the sky put on a show for them.

"Beautiful," he breathed, pulling Michonne closer to him. His lips were warm from their tea as he pressed them to her neck. She laid her head against his shoulder as the sun continued its accent, bathing the world in golden light.

"It is," she clutched her husband's hand beneath the blanket.

"It'll be planting time soon," he mused. "Time to get ready for another year." He released her hand, instead reaching for her belly. She was just beginning to swell beneath her clothing, the new contours of her stomach unknown to the rest of the family.

"Lots of things to prepare for," she agreed, smiling brightly.

Rick grinned right back. "It's going to be a good year," he predicted, pressing his forehead to hers.

From across the field before them, the occupants of the cabins began to stir. Glenn and Maggie emerged first, the newlyweds rising uncharacteristically early. They waved from far off before heading to Hershel's cabin to join the rest of the family for breakfast. Daryl emerged next, sullen, Beth in tow, heading to switch Sasha and Theodore from their watch. Morgan was sure to be awake next, heading out to check on Carol and Sophia, Duane dogging his steps.

"The children will be up soon," Michonne noted. She sat up, turning back towards the house and their children. It was almost time to begin the day, to see to chores, tend the animals, resume combat lessons, and farming, and cooking.

"Sit with me a little while longer," Rick suggested, pulling back to his side.

Michonne complied willingly, content to enjoy the peace just a little longer.

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 **A/N: That's all folks! I had a ball writing this, and I'm so humbled that you all came along for the ride with me. I hope to revisit this version of Richonne and Team Family one day. I hope you all enjoyed it!**


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